THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 
a  Satire 

BY  N.  J.  CLODFELTER 

Prescription 

To  be  taken  as  a  drastic,  but  always 
in  broken  doses.      For  free  distribu 
tion,  on  the  payment  of  fi.oo  each. 
Attest  : 

Compounding  Chemist. 

We  promise  each  who's  forced  to  take  his  dose, 
'Tis  but  the  pure  fermented  bellicose. 


The  Peter  Paul  Book  Company 
Buffalo,  New  York 

MDCCCXCVII 


Copyright,  1897 

by 
JSL  ].  Clodfelter 


Printed  and  bound  by  The 
Peter  Paul  Book  Company, 
in  Buffalo,  New  York. 


fS 


"> 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE 

Tailed,  Hlnfcrilnl,  and  gftmkd  -Qcxrils 

OF  THE  GOTHAM  OF  YASMAR,  THIS 

SATIRE  IS  VERY  FEELINGLY 

INSCRIBED  BY  THE 

AUTHOR. 


904587 


Prelude 

Nemo  me  impune  lacessit. 


\  A  7E'LL  touch  up  our  country  —  a  little,  not  much; 
The  statesman,  too,  in  it,  we'll  give  him  the  knife, 
Who  has  fooled  it  so  long  that  it  walks  with  a  crutch, 
And  unless  he  does  better  'twill  fight  for  its  life. 

We'll  touch  up  the  foibles  of  those  who'd  be  great 
In  the  shades  of  Parnassus,  though  only  intruders, 

And  snatch  off  the  plumes  that  the  mystics  of  fate 
Fastened  on — send  them  back  to  the  home  of  secluders. 

In  fact,  we  will  do  as  we  please  —  not  beseech, — 
And  stand  by  the  old  Constitution  they  gave  us, 

That  has  vouchsafed  to  all  the  freedom  of  speech, 
Believing  in  God  and  it  ready  to  save  us. 

II 

The  robber  who  robs  us  of  honor  and  right 

And  the  dearest  of  hope  that  we  cherished  on  earth 

Is  the  hero  this  cynical  town  with  delight 

Applauds  as  he  joins  with  his  trumpets  of  mirth. 


2  Prelude 

And  the  robber  that  robs  —  if  he  robs  well,  I  say  — 
Is  the  star  of  the  town,  and  the  light  of  the  church 

If  he  groan  in  his  pew  and  he  moan  on  his  way 
Like  an  owl  to  himself  as  he  hoots  from  his  perch. 

He's  the  robber  whose  brow  is  all  knit  with  a  frown, 
So  religious  he  sees  but  the  ghosts  of  all  others 

As  he  walks  down  the  streets  of  the  "classic"  old  town, 
Like  an  ass  burdened  down  from    the   cares   of  his 
brothers, 

Where  sacrilege  sits  on  its  gold-studded  throne, 

And  moistened  eyes  glisten  with  devil-pumped  tears, 

As  they  flow  down  the  cheek  to  the  sigh-tapered  groan, 
O'er  the  face  that  is  not,  but  the  one  that  appears ; 

For  there  is  the  shrine  where  he  goes  to  unload, 
In  his  penitent  way,  and  if  God  ever  hears, 

He  will  set  all  his  devils  upon  his  black  road, 
And  hell  will  resound  with  his  blistering  jeers. 

Ill 

Farewell  to  the  social  old  town  that  can  boast 
Of  a  college  that  swings  in  the  century's  rockers, 

And  alumni  of  old  to  offer  the  toast 

To  students  just  clad  in  their  first  knickerbockers. 


All  fresh  from  their  mothers,  the  younglings  do  swarm 
Through  the  classic  old  halls  that  sounded  of  yore 

With  voices  of  learning  that  gave  them  a  charm 
Of  modern,  and  ancient,  and  scholarly  lore; 


But  cries  of  the  weanlings  have  many  a  charm, 

Supplanting  those  voices  with  childish-mock  moan; 

So  bleat,  little  "Tootsies,"  you  do  little  harm, 
Your  cradles  are  empty,  and  mammas  alone. 


And  when  we  look  up  to  the  great  big  trustees, 
That  manage  this  college  of  good  little  boys, 

Their  majesties  rise  up  as  high  as  the  trees, 

That  compass  it  round  to  their  souls'  sweetest  joys. 


The  chairs  that  are  filled  well,  with  avoirdupois, 

Nothing  more,  nothing  much,  as  we  gaze  on  the  mass, 

We  call  what  we  see  of  it,  teaching  the  boys, 
Professors  of  letters,  and  then  let  it  pass; 


To  president,  trustees,  and  friends  that  are  glowing 
With  modest  ambition  (don't  stare  at  us,  now), 

Your  students  are  sma',  in  stature  they're  growing, 
Nothing  more,  for  the  pilot's  Emeritus  now. 


4  Prelude 

Her  grandest  old  soldier,  so  long  at  the  helm 

Of  the  ship  of  her  state,  through  her  perilous  sea, 

Has  guided  her  on  through  her  storm-beaten  realm 
To  her  surf-bordered  harbor  of  bright  destiny. 

Let  us  sing  in  our  song,  that  her  greatest  of  glory 
Will  be  cradled  of  past,  not  of  future ;  the  roll 

Of  alumni  of  old  will  alone  tell  the  story 

Of  her  thirty  years'  pilot  on  memory's  scroll. 


IV 

'Tis  Thanksgiving  Day.  If  you  please,  we'll  return  'em, 
Through  muses  of  venom,  they  soothe  us  now  most ; 

And  the  fair  pretty  ones,  we  could  ne'er  before  spurn  'em, 
So  here's  at  you  all  now,  from  stranger  to  host. 

If  our  song  wrongeth  one,  let  him  say  so,  we  pray  on ; 

If  it  striketh  him  fair,  'tis  himself  he  then  wrongs; 
And  we're  one  yet  whose  whip  is  of  steel,  and  can  lay  on 

Till  lash  giveth  character  to  whom  it  belongs. 

To  hypocrites,  charlatans,  and  their  combinings, 
We  fain  the  black  spirit  unmask  on  them  now, 

And  write  their  true  measures  in  blackest  of  linings, 
To  ulcer  and  feed  on  their  memories'  brow. 


Prelude  5 

Let  the  prowling  hyena,  that  poses  with  men, 
Sneak  under  the  hypocrite's  cloak  unaware; 

To  renounce  what  we  say,  let  him  crawl  from  his  den, 
Kill  his  man  'neath  applause  and  return  to  his  prayer ; 

Kill  his  man  when  the  character's  killed,  as  before, 
'Tisn't  much  for  the  villian  to  do  to  be  great ; 

While  Gotham  applauds,  and  honors  him  more. 
By  giving  him  voices  in  councils  of  state. 

V 

The  village  named  city,  that  roosts  where  it's  sitting, 
Like  a  rooster  that  never  knew  daylight  was  here, 

And  can  roost  on  fore'er  as  the  world  round  it's  flitting, 
'Neath  the  torch  of  progression,  and  not  be  aware. 

Roost  on,  little  village,  in  ways  of  old  fashion  ! 

(You  maybe  can  yet  learn  a  way  to  grow  tougher) 
And  never  awaken  to  join  the  procession 

That's  passing  along,  but  grow  rougher  and  rougher. 

Retain  the  self-style  of  your  name  yet,  "  The  Athens  "  ; 

Let  cocoanut  brains,  soaked,  rule  the  town  well ; 
Call  all  of  the  pinheads  and  all  of  the  Nathans, 

Then  rendezvous  imps  from  the  corners  of  hell ; 


6  Prelude 

All  join  in  one  council  and  tell  the  same  story, 
Conspire  and  connive  in  the  innocent  way, 

And  blackmail  and  lie  for  money  and  glory, 
While  the  heel  of  dishonor  keeps  honor  at  bay 


L —  W —  and  M —  T —  give  tone  to  the  mixture, 
Infesting  the  town  full  fifty  years  past, 

Their  fames  are  now  all  that  will  make  it  a  fixture, 
On  a  map  full  as  large  as  a  chigger  would  cast. 


Lie  dormant  and  die  of  acquired  constipation, 
To  purge  thy  foul  self  thou  findest  no  place; 

So  oscillate  on  in  your  own  degradation, 

Disinfectants  won't  blot  out  your  slime  and  disgrace. 


Ye  lawyers  and  gamblers,  and  all  other  asses 

(That  we  mean  in  our  song),  swarm  on  into  hell, 

With  the  other  black  ghouls  that  get  out  of  their  places, 
To  steal  from  the  living  —  and  dead  just  as  well ! 

Seek  victims  and  follow  them  up  unrelenting, 
For  legal  blackmailers  unpunished  may  smile, 

When  they  bray  to  a  court  that  is  always  repenting, 
If  he  chance  to  do  justice  e'en  once  in  a  while ! 


Prelude 

Life,  property,  honor,  all  in  a  court's  keeping ; 

A  trust  that's  more  sacred  men  cannot  bestow 
Upon  man  than  this  one ;  it  causes  more  weeping 

Than  wars,  insurrections,  or  foe  does  to  foe. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar: 
a  Satire 


Parti 

*T^O  bear  our  stiff 'ring  is  to  conquer  fate, 

But  as  we  bear  we  must  retaliate 
A  little,  as  we  go  along,  as  well 
As  those  who  kill  and  send  their  foes  to  hell ; 
So,  if  we  swim  in  slime  and  other  stuff, 
'Tis  but  our  way  to  give  our  foes  enough. 

The  good,  the  best,  the  honest,  and  the  true, 
Ingratitude  shall  not  be  ours  for  you ; 
The  silken  cords  of  love,  respect,  and  grace, 
Shall  bind  us  to  you  through  life's  bitter  race, 
Though  forced  to  battle  with  a  venal  foe, 
And  use  the  weapons  that  we  might  forego 
In  civil  warfare,  yet  we  plead  not  rash, 
When  plying  those  that  give  back  lash  for  lash. 
So  you,  our  honest  friends,  just,  good,  and  true, 
Our  light  artillery's  not  trained  on  you ! 


io  The  Gotham  of  Yasinar 

The  selfish  man,  for  his  own  selfish  gains, 

From  selfishness  alone  he  forges  chains 

To  bind  a  friendship  that  he  can  abuse, 

And  a  confiding  friend  he  can  misuse, 

And  yet  look  square  into  his  trustful  face 

And  plead  the  innocent  through  friendship's  grace. 

It  matters  not  if  'tis  for  place  or  wealth, 

Those  friendships  multiply  through  the  same  stealth 

Of  selfishness,  as  fate  decrees  to  man 

Distinguished  honors;  then  the  kneeling  clan, 

Like  worshippers  of  gods  in  olden  days, 

Drop  at  his  feet  and  sing  his  loudest  praise. 

True  friendship —  ah  !  what  is  it?  'tis  as  rare 

As  visitations  from  the  heav'nly  dove 
And  when  it  comes  to  us  the  same  sweet  care 

Should  e'er  attend  it,  as  the  ones  we  love. 
How  many  friends  have  you,  my  reader  —  you? 
Methinks  I  hear  you  say,  "Ah!  many,  true, 
Who'd  share  with  me  in  every  trial  and  care, 
And  answer  with  their  last  my  ev'ry  prayer." 


Deceptive  reader!  if  you  could  construe 
And  analyze  the  hearts  you  think  beat  true, 
Though  numbered  by  the  thousand  —  even  more, — 
And  you  should  find  among  them  half  a  score 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  1 1 

Whose  hearts  were  true,   your  wealth  would  be  so  great, 

If  Crcesus  were  alive  with  his  estate, 

You  could  with  yours  have  him  of  his  bereft, 

And  yet  of  yours  there  would  be  plenty  left. 

So  now,  my  reader,  as  through  life  you  run, 

You're  rich  indeed  if  you  can  count  true  —  one. 

We  have  recorded  the  fair  Pythian  story, 

Life  bowed  to  friendship,  as  it  frowned  on  glory; 

And  through  the  myriads  of  the  cycles  run, 

From  selfishness  we  have  this  single  one, 

And  it  in  story.     Now,  if  we  select 

One  true  friend  from  the  throng,  what  more  expect? 

We've  bided  well  our  time  and  waited  long, 
And  patience  has  been  tested  to  the  quick; 

We're  ready  now  to  pay  back  ev'ry  wrong, 
And  set  on  fire  each  devil  that  we  kick. 

Our  sword  is  satire,  and  we  dare  to  greet 

All  worthy  foes  that  doubt  its  tempered  steel, 

And  on  the  field  conspiring  dastards  meet, 
That  never  felt,  but  may  learn  yet  to  feel. 

Here's  to  our  foes,  half  candor,  and  half  grief; 
At  them,  our  muse,  full-fledged,  for  sweet  relief; 


1 2  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

Spare  not  the  ones  that  cast  the  darkest  woes, 
Which  should  have  been  our  friends  instead  of  foes ! 


Scoff,  censure,  praise,  ignore,  'tis  all  the  same; 

We  care  not  what  you  do,  we'll  have  our  say, 

Feel  better,  too,  to  stop  while  on  our  way, 
And  dine  upon  the  paltry  little  game 

That  trespasses  upon  our  right  of  way, 
To  satisfy  our  "bilious  appetite." 
So,  clear  the  track,  for  we  shall  write  our  right 
With  bullets,  lead,  or  paper,  in  the  fight; 
We  care  not  which  from  us  you  may  invite, 
We  are  prepared  to  give  and  take,  and  give. 
More  than  we  take. 

Gods!  'tis  sweet  to  live 
And  pay  back  what  we  owe  to  erring  man ; 
E'en  if  we  pay  on  the  installment  plan, 
And  speeding  years  of  int'rest  have  been  many, 
We'll  yet  compound,  and  pay  back  ev'ry  penny. 
The  currency  we  pay  in,  he  will  revel, 
Refund  in  tax  we  levy  on  the  Devil; 
And,  gods !    how  we  will  lay  the  tariff  on  ! 

The  Devil's  claws  will  hold  it  ev'ry  line, 
When  he  exacts,  he'll  wish  that  he  had  gone 

About  his  own  affairs  instead  of  mine. 


The  (.rotJiam  of  }  \ismar  1 3 

In  days  when  poets  spring  up  all  around  us, 

Like  mushrooms  in  some  lonely  hotbed  crammed, 
And  we  behold  them,  they  the  more  confound  us, 

And  as  we  read,  the  more  we  wish  them  damned ; 
Shades  of  Longfellow,  Bryant,  Holland,  too, 

And  Lowell,  Whittier,  Poe,  and  squint-eyed  Riley, 
The  latter  trying  hard  to  rise  to  view, 

Among  the  throng  by  dialect  so  wily ! 
His  readers  all  applaud,  when  he  is  through, 
For  he's  as  classic  as  the  pedagogue, 

And  beautiful  as  the  red  rose  in  June; 
His  verse  too  smooth,  as  if  inspired  by  grog, 

The  same  old  verse  that  never  was  in  tune; 
And  when  we  see  him  'mong  the  throng  he  poses, 

We  think  of  bedbugs  strutting  with  peacocks, 
And  ginseng  weeds  amid  a  bank  of  roses, 

And  incense  tainted  by  the  smell  of  frocks 
That  had  been  worn  too  long,  and  cast  aside, 
And  happened  to  drift  in  upon  the  tide. 


His  little  publishers,  with  fervent  joys, 
Hold  him  to  view  as  children  do  their  toys, 
Well  balanced,  yet  tiptoed,  on  either  hand. 
They  shout:    "SEE!   SEE!  the  poet  of  our  land ! 


Then  Riley  to  his  own  amusement  struts, 

On  either  palm,  and  many  a  caper  cuts, 

While  all  the  journals  of  the  country  shine 

With  bristling  praise,  at  just  so  much  a  line, 

Except  The  Journal  oi  his  town;  it  shouts, 

"  OUR  FOSTER  CHILD  !  "  The  child  then  frowns  and  pouts, 

And  says : 

"'Tis  me  dat  maked  mysef,  I  dess, 
An'  not  de  dad  dat  c'aims  me.     No,  doodness! 
I  oodn't  be  his  chile  no  more,  I  oodn't. 
If  he  did  teached  me  some  t'ings  'at  I  touldn't 
Do,  w'en  I's  so  'ittle,  'at's  no  'eason 
I  s'ould  be  hisn  in  an'  out'n  season. 
I  'on't  no  more!  so  dere  now,  Mis 'r  Journal '; 
Don't  try  to  be  at  all  times  so  paternal !  " 


The  Journal  takes  its  little  protege 
And  "nightly  rides  it"  on  its  bended  knee, 
And  pats  it  gently  for  its  freaks  and  wiles  — 
It  looks  up  in  its  parent's  face,  and  smiles. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 


Do  to  peep,  oo  ittie  pecious,    Two  s'eet  ittie  b'ight  eyes  up,    Papa  'tay  wight 


in  here  wiz  it,  Tovy  ittie  bare  'egs  up.     Do  to  seepins,  do  to  seepins,  Do  to  seep. 


my  ittie  one,     Dit  de  paddies  down  all  warmy,    Fo' my  dar'ing  ittie  son 


SONG. 


In  the  "Milk  World  "  language. 

Dototeepins,  ittiepecious, 
Toseitittie  bighteyesup, 

Papatay  wight  inherewizit, 
Toveiltie  bareegsup. 

Dototeepins,  dototeepins, 
Dototeep,  myittieone, 

Detdepaddies  downall  warmy, 
Ittie  pecious,  ittione. 

Dotebugger  inenosy, 
Mateebaby  tnuffitome, 

Nevermindit,  papadetit, 
Coochewoochee !   outetome ! 

Ittieeyeshave  donetodezzer, 
Matechillsup  papa  tweep, 

Sinko  osingittieone  — 
Bessit !  bessit !  donetoseep. 


This  is  an  elegant  example  of  FIRST 
MILK  poetry,  and  our  object  in  printing  the 
original,  together  with  the  translation,  is  to 
show  the  reader,  that,  when  the  Milk-World 
diction  enters  the  Child-World  diction,  it 
loses  much  of  its  poetic  beauty. 


Same,  translated  to  the  "Child- 
World"  language, 

Do  to  peep,  oo  ittie  pecious, 
Two  s'eet  ittie  b'ight  eyes  up, 

Papa  'lay  wight  in  here  wiz  it, 
Tovy  ittie  bare  'egs  up. 

Do  to  seepins,  do  to  seepins, 

Do  to  seep,  my  ittie  one. 
Dit  de  paddies  down  all  warmy, 

Fo'  my  dar'ing  ittie  son. 

Dot  a  bugger  in  him's  nosy, 
Mate  a  baby  sniffle  some, 

Nevy  mind  it,  papa  del  it, 
Cooche-wooch  —  and  out  it  tome  ! 

Ittie  eyes  have  done  todezzer, 
Mate  de  chills  fro'  papa  tweep, 

To  sink  o'  oosing  ittie  Jimmie  ! 
Bess  him!  bess  him!  done  to  seep! 

This  translation  is  most  cordially  in 
scribed  to  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL: 
and  for  its  especial  convenience  we  have  had 
the  same  set  to  music  by  a  famous  musician. 
We  suggest  that  it  would  be  appropriate  for 
the  closing  of  the  evening  lullaby  when 
Jimmy  is  not  cross. 


1 6  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

The  type  he  once  used  now  in  its  confines 

Will  lie  as  dormant  as  when  in  the  mines; 

The  art  the  molder  used  could  be  no  worse, 

Yet  never  reach  the  level  of  his  verse  ; 

And  still  the  few  applaud  the  "trashy  rot," 

As  Riley  "tiptoes"  in  a  "turkey"  trot, 

And  swells  up  like  his  "rooster"  on  the  fence 

He  rhymes  so  "neatly"  with  his  "chicken  hens." 

The  last  rhyme's  his  —  for  God's  sake,  let  it  be, 

And  do  not  charge  a  crime  like  that  to  me. 

But,  as  we  push  our  pen  along,  we  think  • 
Of  all  the  champions  so  much  above  us, 

And  smile  because  they  have  leaped  from  earth's  brink, 
And,  too,  because  the  gods  now  really  love  us 

As  much  as  they  once  lov'd  our  noble  brothers, 

And  will  give  us  that  love  they  gave  to  others, 

In  spite  of  Riley,  Miller,  or  their  like; 

So  we'll  mount  Pegasus,  and  they  the  "bike." 

V 

But  since  the  great  we've  named,  'long  with  the  great 
Whose  sweeping  spirits  from  this  earth  have  fled, 

We  must  proclaim,  we  can  no  longer  wait, 
To  tell  the  world  that  Riley,  too,  is  dead  ; 

He  was  his  self-destroyer  —  suicide ; 

His  weapon  was  his  "  Child  World,"  and  it  lay 


TJie  Gotham  of  J  rasmar  1 7 

Dead  as  its  victim,  closely  by  his  side, 
The  silent  witness  of  the  fatal  day; 
And  generations  that  are  yet  unborn, 
Will  hold  it  up  to  ridicule  and  scorn. 

Now,  he  who  scoffs  at  us  for  touching  Riley, 
He  should  be  forced  to  read  for  just  a  while  a 
Chapter  from  his  "  Child  World  ";  then  content 
The  scoffer  would  be  with  his  punishment. 
We  pray  you,  spirit  Riley,  don't  be  cruel, 

And  kill  us  for  this  act  of  criticism, 
But  come  up,  shade  or  spirit,  take  your  gruel, 

And  call  it  trash  instead  of  witticism. 
'Twill  be  so  childlike,  and  so  sensible, 
And  thus  to  you  more  comprehensible! 

O'er  all  the  lands  of  which  we  ever  wandered, 
Through  all  the  books  of  which  we  ever  pondered, 
And  through  all  times  the  muse  has  e'er  enjoyed  us, 
Three  syllables  have  more  or  less  employed  us  — 
Wil-cox,  sing?!     And  yet,  we've  heard  thee  singing, 
Songs  fair  and  dear,  down  through  the  cycles  ringing 
In  sweet  refrains :  ah !  must  we  too  reveal  her 
Who  sings  so  sweetly?   it  is  Ella  Wheeler  — 
Wil-cox.     Sing  !  ?  the  sweetest  muse  ne'er  slumbers 
On  through  each  year,  but  pours  forth  fairer  numbers. 


1 8  The  Gotham  of  Yasuiar 

'The  tones  she  strikes,  they  will  forever  linger, 
E'en  when  old  Death  has  laid  on  his  cold  finger; 
Then  songs  of  love  swept  on  a  lyre  above  us, 
Will  tremble  back  to  earth  and  sigh  they  love  us, 
In  s\veeter  tones  than  those  struck  while  terrestrial. 
Be  patient  till  our  queen  becomes  celestial ! 
Then  take  your  trumpet  'neath  the  stars,  and  wonder, 
And  telescope,  and  search  on  'till  you've  found  her. 
'Twill  not  be  long  till  strains  will  come  back  gushing 
To  tender  hearts  they  really  will  be  crushing. 
Forgive  us,  now,  posterity;  we  warn  you, 
E'en  if  the  singer  from  above  shall  scorn  you. 

About  the  time  of  nineteen  ninety-seven, 

When  earth's  sojourners  will  look  most  to  heaven 

For  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century 

(Those  who  escaped  the  penitentiary), 

The  meek  observer  takes  his  telescope, 

And  ranges  from  the  north  star  down  the  slope 

Of  distant  vision,  and  low  on  the  deck, 

He  sees  our  Mis'r  Riley,  jus'  a  spec'. 

With  the  mos'  pow'rful  lens,*  he  does  observe 

Joaquin  Miller  hanging  to  the  tail 
Of  a  wild  comet,  and  he  sees  him  swerve, 

And  kite  along  through  space  upon  its  trail. 


*  Distance  not  far,  either. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  19 

And  as  he  gazes  thus,  his  trump  he  takes, 

And  closely  presses  it  against  his  ear 
And  listens,  till  all  heaven  wide  awakes 

In  melodies,  sweet  as  if  they  were  near; 
And  when  he's  filled  to  brim  admiring  those, 
He'll  change  his  vision  o'er  to  Apollo's 
World,  and  there  he'll  see,  if  his  lens  is  strong, 
Wilcox,  and  Krout,  and  others  of  their  throng 
Scatt'ring  wide  such  hymns  and  tender  strains 
They  bring  great  clouds  that  pour  down  heavy  rains 
Upon  the  stargazer,  when  he  is  most 

Inspired.     This  to  him  is  so  bad  an  omen 
That  he  begins  to  think  it  was  a  ghost 

In  old  Apollo's  world  instead  of  woman. 
He  stops  awhile  to  pull  his  hair,  and  sees 

Great  Jupiter  break  through  a  rift  of  clouds, 
And,  as  to  show  their  teeth,  the  Pleiades 

Smile  through  another  rift,  as  white  as  shrouds, 
He  turns  his  telescope  upon  them,  and 
Peeps  through. 

He  falls  full  length  upon  the  sand ; 
He  sees  the  greatest  poets  holding  mass 
Observing  him,  as  if  he  were  an  ass, 
For  looking  down  so  low  at  little  specks, 
And  wond'ring  why  such  fools  should  strain  their  necks 
To  see  such  atoms,  and  so  far  below 
The  throne  where  only  the  great  poets  go. 


2O  77/6'  Gotham  of  Yasniar 

And  the  stargazer  howled,  and  kicked,  and  swore, 
And  broke  his  telescope.     He'll  gaze  no  more; 
But  others  will,  who  know  astronomy, 

And  they  will  watch  him  who  knocks  out  a  star, 
Keep  tab  on  him,  and  note  all  harmony 

And  discord  of  each  harp  e'en  up  as  far 
As  Jupiter  himself.     This  may  exclude 
Doc  Matthews,*  yet  we  hope  he  may  intrude, 
(Excuse  us,  Doc)  —  we  mean  he  may  invade, 
Or  stand  a  chance  there  to  alone  parade, 
A  portion  of  the  moon,  should  he  bestride 
An  asteroid,  and  not  Pegasus  ride. 
Another,  too,  one  Lawrance, f  who  is  fair, 
Should  he  persist  to  ride  his  winged  horse  there, 
May  be  cast  off  in  space,  and  whirl  around, 
Until  he  comes  again  back  to  the  ground. 
So,  Mr.  Lawrance,  let  your  horse  astray, 
And  grab  a  comet's  tail,  and  sail  away. 
'Twill  be  much  safer  than  depend  on  him; 
He's  spavined,  ringboned  —  yes,  in  ev'ry  limb, — 
For,  don't  you  see?   he  limps  in  this  slow  pace; 
What  would  he  do  to  run  a  star  a  race  ? 
Why,  when  it  passed  him  as  he'd  onward  sneak, 
He'd  look  around  and  only  smell  the  streak. 

*  "  Tempe  Vale,  and  Other  Poems,"  by  this  author,  do  him  honor,  and 
\ve  are  quite  sure  he  has  earned  the  position  we  have  given  him. 

tin  "Ellina"  and  "The  Story  of  Judith,"  Mr.  Lawrance  has  well 
earned  his  position. 


77/6'  Gotliain  of  )  'asmar  2 1 

A  great  big  ambling  wabbler — Opie  Read, 

We  think  they  call  him  down  in  Tennessee  — 
Who  wrote  "The  Prophet's  Wives"  and  "Old  Hayseed," 
And  God  alone  knows  what  else,  thinking  he 
Can  ride  down  through  the  twentieth  century; 
O  Opie,  Opie !  you  are  such  a  fool, 
You  should  go  drown  yourself  in  the  same  pool 
The  wives  drowned  in,  or  be  rode  on  a  rail, 
For  you'll  be  tied  to  some  wild  comet's  tail, 
And  cast  adrift,  soon  as  the  fates  do  place 
You  with  the  dead,  and  whipped  around  through  space! 
You've  killed  so  many  people,  and  so  rash, 
By  drowning  them,  and  smoth'ring  them  with  trash, 
When  you  are  fastened  on  a  comet's  back, 
You'll  get  well  paid  by  many  a  scathing  whack 
As  you  collide  with  others  of  your  sphere, 
Not  up  much  higher  than  the  atmosphere. 
So  go  to  penance;    make  amends  before 
It  is  too  late  ;  but,  Opie,  write  no  more! 


We'll  whet  our  scythe  for  Hay  that's  gone  to  seed, 
And  lay  it  low  with  thistle  rank,  and  reed 
Will  fall  to  its  keen  edge,  and  any  rake, 
Will  mix  the  harvest  that  we  chose  to  take. 
Though  standing  long  unharvested,  'twill  be 
Cheap  fodder  for  old  England's  majesty; 


22  The  Gotham  of  Yasinar 

But  hence  it  goes,  and  if  they  on  it  browse  — 
Well,  they'd  really  better  feed  it  to  their  cows, 
Baled  or  unbaled,  with  U.  S.  stamp  on  there. 
Look  well  to  same  should  they  upon  it  fare ; 
It  laid  too  long  upon  the  stubble  field, 
To  any  more  a  succulency  yield. 
Remember  what  we  say:  there  should  have  grown 
A  second  crop  of  Hay  where  this  was  sown, 
For  foreign  market;  Britain,  here's  to  you, 
This  crop  that's  over  ripe  —  me-ew,  me-ew. 

To  you,  ye  lettered  minions,  who'd  presume 

To  flash  a  genius  on  beyond  the  tomb, 

Stop,  think,  and  heed  the  dangling  of  the  throng 

That  go  to  glory  on  bedraggled  song. 

Should  there  be  any  whom  we  fail  to  please, 

By  an  omission,  count  them,  then,  with  these, 

Except  John  Hay ;    now,  he  should  count  some  more, 

Than  a  mere  flash  light  that  had  gone  before, 

Since  he  has  gone  in  tinsel  to  the  port 

Of  classic  England,  and  St.  James's  Court. 

This  gives  him  vent;  he  may  now  reach  the  moon, 

And  take  possession,  and  still  sing  and  croon; 

But  this  will  be  contested  every  inch 

By  lunatics  up  there  who  never  flinch. 

They're  poets  to;  and  so,  if  we  guess  right, 

When  Hay  arrives  to  take  his  claim,  he'll  fight, 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  23 

Or  be  hurled  off  to  then  become  a  comet, 
And  sail  so  swift  he'll  be  so  sick  he'll  v— mit, 
And  cosmic  dust  will  fly  around  so  thick 
Astronomers  will  know  that  Hay  is  sick. 
God  speed  you,  John,  for  we  have  ranked  you  high; 
Whet  up  your  sword,  lay  down  your  pen  —  and  die. 
But  tyait  until  you  have  recrossed  the  waters, 
And  left  the  songs  to  lull  old  England's  daughters 
As  you  have  ours ;  and  do  not  grow  demure, 
E'en  should  you  be  in  London  quite  obscure. 
Don't  pull  your  hair  if  Shakespeare's  star  still  shines; 
Don't  grow  morose  if  England  scorns  your  lines; 
'Twill  be  far  better  to  berate  her  wines. 
Should  Tennyson  be  quoted  in  your  hearing, 
Don't  frown,  maintain  the  dignity  of  bearing. 
Remember  that  the  sun  of  Byron  rose, 
And  will  expand  fore'er,  o'er  his  repose. 
Remember  Milton,  Pope,  and  Wordsworth,  too, 
And  Browning,  Scott,  and  Campbell,  'mongthefew; 
Forget  them  not  as  shining  suns,  our  Hay; 
But  should  you  mid  their  brilliance  lose  your  way, 
Conceive  yourself  the  magnitude  you  are 
In  such  a  constellation — just  a  star 
Astronomers  can  scarcely  ever  disk. 
So  if  you're  lost,  blame  self — you  took  the  risk  ! 
Once  Lowell,  and  a  Bayard,  and  a  Taylor 
Shone  in  the  galaxy  of  England's  gay 


24  The  Gotham  of  Yasuiar 

Like  suns  of  Jupiter;  and  lights  yet  frailer 
Will  dwindle  into  darkness,  Mr.  Hay. 
So,  should  you  be  compelled  to  grope  your  way 
Amid  the  stars  that  shine  for  other  eyes, 
Take  lessons  from  the  silence  of  the  skies, 
E'en  though  colossal  visions  round  you  creep, 
And  learn  one  sun  can  put  all  stars  to  sleep ! 

Oh  yes !  oh  yes !  our  muse,  our  pretty  muse, 

You  were  so  kind  to  come  from  your  recluse, 

And  pose  for  us  in  nature's  scant  attire, 

And  touch  the  trembling  strings  of  our  fond  Lyre ! 

We  feel  thy  magic  presence,  fairy  maid, 

And  heav'nly  doves  fly  round  from  ev'ry  glade, 

And  flow'rs  from  Cashmere,  fresh  from  beds  of  dew, 

Rise  up  on  either  hand  to  meet  our  view. 

O  vale  of  Paradise !  the  home  of  queens, 

The  fountain  of  our  legends  and  our  dreams ! 

You  bless  us  now,  as  we  have  ne'er  been  blessed  — 

One  world,  one  beauty,  and  by  both  caressed, 

Lulled  on  into  an  everlasting  sleep, 

Where  love's  sweet  vigils  o'er  us  e'er  do  keep ! 

O  pretty  muse !  we  thank 

What,  little  rowdy ! 

Have  you  brought  in  our  presence  oom  Jack  Gowdy? 
You  treach'rous  maid,  we'll  lead  you  off  askance, 
And  send  our  oom  Jack  on  to  dear  old  France: — 


77/6'  Gotham  of  Yasniar  25 

And  what  a  trick  you  served  us  through  McKinley, 

You  little  wretch !     Did  you  but  know  that  men  lay 

Down  their  lives  just  to  avenge  their  wrongs, 

When  little  muses  dance  off  with  their  songs 

As  you  have  done  with  ours,  when  you  brought  Gowdy 

Into  our  presence ! — 

Since  the  sky  is  cloudy, 

We'll  let  you  go  and  have  your  stubborn  way; 
And  if  he  will,  you  may  lead  Jack  astray. 
Yet,  hoping  he'll  grow  virtuous  and  stately, 
We'll  let  him  go,  but  know  we'll  miss  him  greatly. 
{But  if  old  France  can  hold  her  own  with  Jack, 
God  knows  she's  safe  —  we' II  never  take  it  back.*} 


Our  flash  light  shows  another,  Lee  O.  Harris, 

The  "  Bobwhite  Poet,"  standing  out  to  dare  us, 

With  guards  drawn  up  as  pugilists  would  draw  'em ; 

We'll  let  him  strike,  then  dodge  in,  and  we'll  claw  'im 

The  same  as  others  who  may  need  a  dressing, 

A  satirizing,  or  a  sacred  blessing. 

For  really  bobwhites  will  tell  their  own  story; 

Since  he  sang  them,  they'll  whistle  him  to  glory; 

And  when  he  steps  from  this  earth  to  his  planet, 

And  has  been  on  it  long  enough  to  man  it, 

He'll  come  back  close  enough  to  see  earth  bristling, 

And  set  the  quails  he  stirs  up  all  to  whistling. 


26  The  Gotham  of  Yasniar 

Now,  Mrs.  Donnelly,  down  in  old  Texas, 
We  have  no  doubt  but  your  friends  will  expect  us 
To  take  you  with  us  the  next  hundred  years! 
Hard  task .'   hard  task  !   because  we  have  great  fears 
As  to  our  harp  —  it's  getting  out  of  tune, — 

And  our  winged  horse  fell  down  and  broke  a  wing, 
And  when  we  try  to  sing  we  only  croon, 

And  when  we  croon  the  owls  begin  to  sing, 
And  this  will  strike  good  singers  with  such  plight, 
To  take  them  with  us  —  well,  'twould  not  be  right 
When  we  have  such  grave  doubts  about  our  trip; 
But  if  you'd  take  the  journey,  pack  your  grip, 
And  tune  your  harp,  and  mount  the  spavined  jade, 
As  we  go  by  to  join  the  cavalcade. 
The  chords  you  strike  we  think  will  linger  o'er 
The  funeral  pyre  of  many  gone  before, 
Who  would  be  greater  harpists  than  you  are, 
But  ne'er  can  reach  you  when  you  mount  your  star. 


Our  thoughts  revert,  and  go  to  poor  Mark  Twain, 

Who  made  us  laugh  in  boyhood ;  the  refrain 

Comes  back  in  tears,  and  sets  our  heart  to  throbbing, 

And  turns  our  laughter  into  anguished  sobbing. 

Heart   cries:     Poor   Clem!     poor   Sam!     poor  Twain! 

poor  Mark ! 
Where  genius  lighted  up  your  way,  'tis  dark, 


77/6'  Gotham  of  Yasniar  27 

And  in  a  strange  land  far  away  you  grope 

Your  lonely  course,  for  genius  had  her  scope; 

How  oft  our  risibles  were  overwrought 

By  some  expression  or  some  grotesque  thought, 

That  flowed  from  off  your  pen,  O  friend  of  youth ! 

Maturer  age,  hast  time  wrote  down  its  truth 

Of  ravages,  and  left  you  scarce  a  ray 

To  watch  your  brilliant  genius  fade  away? 

But  look  ye,  friend,  up  in  the  heavens  so  far, 

And  see  thy  genius  fixed,  by  some  fixed  star 

That's  fading  'neath  its  glow  and  radiant  light, 

And  learn,  dear  friend,  for  thee  there  is  no  night! 

There  is  a  chanter  who  in  song's  a  stripling; 

We'll  scratch  our  head  to  bring  his  name  to  mind, 
'Tis — 'tis — 'tis —  ah!  — 'tis — 'tis  one  Rudyard  Kipling, 

A  little  poet  of  the  croaking  kind. 
He  seems  to  be  of  song  more  like  a  joker 

When  with  sweet  singers  tries  he  to  commune, 
Or  like  a  bullfrog  that's  the  loudest  croaker 

In  all  the  marshland  —  always  out  of  tune. 
Whene'er  we  hear  his  song,  we  feel  surrounded 

By  one  great  barren  waste  of  swampy  land 
Where  frogs  and  owls  in  numbers  are  unbounded 

And  jack-o'-lanterns  rise  on  either  hand, 
The  weird  and  dismal  hoot  of  the  night  king, 

And  the  deep  throats  of  the  most  sturdy  frogs, 


28  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

And  wafting  breeze  of  blood-bats  on  the  wing 

Fanned  from  the  hissing  vipers  on  the  logs. 
There  combat  rages !  as  these  vile  bloodsuckers 

Draw  from  the  writhing  reptiles  their  lifeblood, 
And  an  old  tree  toad  looks  on  as  he  puckers 

His  warty  mouth,  to  drink  it,  if  he  could. 
His  lyre  again  twangs;   and  the  screaming  near  us! 

A  jackal  and  a  lynx  in  fierce  combat, 
And  knotted  vipers,  writhing,  they  so  scare  us 

That  our  stiff  hair  stands  up  and  lifts  our  hat; 
And  we  awaken  from  our  nervous  sleeping 
Believing  that  we  felt  the  vipers  creeping, 
And  turn  ourselves  in  bed  all  trembling,  thinking  — 
Yes,  knowing,  swearing  —  that  we'd  not  been  drinking, 
But  only  reading  Kipling,  just  to  rank  him. 
Now,  should  we  ever  condescend  to  thank  him, 
When  he  caused  us  to  wrestle  with  a  nightmare 
Until  our  black  hair  had  all  turned  to  white  hair? 
No,  no,  we  answer;    never  will  we  thank  him, 
But  clap  our  hands  as  slimy  creatures  yank  him, 
And  let  him  go  and  find  his  way  by  fox-fire, 
And  seek  his  level,  which,  in  fact,  is  no  higher. 

And  there  is  Pfrimmer,  whom  we'd  like  to  spare, 
If  he  would  write  the  English  with  more  care, 
Or  write  it  as  it  pours  out  from  his  heart, 
In  the  pure  tongue  and  not  in  acquired  art, 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmcw  29 

For,  when  we  pick  his  "  Driftwood  "  up,  we  see 
And  find  so  much  sweet  sentiment  expressed, 
In  what  he  terms  the  dialect — maybe! 
But,  if  it  is,  God  spare  us  from  the  rest 
Of  dialectors,  for  his  is  the  best, 
Yet  it's  so  badly  crippled  with  dropped  letters, 
And  has  caused  so  much  death  among  typesetters, 
That  we're  almost  afraid  to  read  it  through, 
For  it,  no  doubt,  could  kill  a  reader,  too. 
Now,  Mr.  Pfrimmer,  dialect's  contagious, 
And  to  true  scholarship  it  is  outrageous; 
So  clear  your  system  of  it  while  there's  time 
And  run  pure  diction  through  in  perfect  rhyme, 
As  you  can  do,  and  just  let  Riley  revel 
Alone  in  dialect,  as  it's  his  level. 
For  if  you'd  write  true  English  you'd  acquire 

A  star  so  high,  when  you  stepped  from  this  sphere, 
The  specks  of  dialectors  would  appear 
No  more  than  the  mere  twinkle  of  fox-fire, 

Just  like  Kipling  in  among  the  "  should-be's,"- 
With  the  dialectors  and  the  "  would-be's  "! 

Nat  Goodwin  !  if  it  had  not  been  for  you, 

We  should  have  written  this  whole  satire  through, 

And  let  the  stagestruck  feeble-minded  go, 

Without  allusion;  but  you  fooled  us  so 

The  last  time  you  came  back  "to  do  our  town  " 

Why,  Nat,  you  acted  more  like  some  old  clown, 


Discharged  from  a  half-rated  show,  and  taken 

Into  some  fourth-rater,  forlorn,  forsaken. 

Ah,  dejected  Nat !  if  you  could  really  pass, 

And  had  the  power  to  view  "as  in  a  looking-glass" 

Yourself,  as  you  here  tried  to  act,  your  pride 

Would  be  so  cut  you'd  surely  suicide  — 

That  is,  if  you  are  not  now  too  much  forlorn 

To  have  the  pride  we  speak  of  from  you  shorn. 

You  could  not  help  it,  Nat,  you'd  be  so  'shamed 

You'd  botch  the  suicide  that  we  have  claimed 

For  you,  and  cripple  up  yourself  so  much 

That  stage  stride  would  go  ambling  on  a  crutch. 

E'en  then,  we've  no  doubt,  'twould  be  better  done, 

But  better  still  if  two  instead  of  one. 

So  do  adopt  the  crutches ;  it  behooves  you 

To  try  the  artificial  that  improves  you ; 

For  nature  has  so  long  been  schooling  you, 

And  vanity  alone  been  fooling  you, 

Till  really  you  believe  you  can  act — mind, 

You  can,  Nat,  some;  but  such  a  measly  kind 

Forces  us  to  say,  "  Alas  !  poor  Yorick  !  " 

And  sigh  for  a  large  dose  of  paregoric  ! 

Now,  there  is  Russell  !  when  he  made  his  sally 

At  the  people,  in  his  "  Peaceful  Valley," 

We  feel  like  saying,  "  If  he  had  died  first, 

Been  laid  to  rest  within  it,  then  the  worst, 

Of  acting  would  have  ne'er  to  us  been  known 

(Except  through  Goodwin  and  the  chaff  he's  sown).' 


The  Gotham  of  }  "asmar  3 1 

Yet  some  good's  there,  for  little  friv'lous  things 
Will  set  the  people  wild,  and  touch  the  springs 
That  let  their  foibles  loose;  and  cry  and  laughter 
Will  ring  like  bedlam  from  the  floor  to  rafter, 
E'en  when  some  old  dry  chestnuts  have  been  cracked 
A  thousand  times,  and  hulls  have  all  been  hacked 
Into  a  dust,  while  sitting  in  our  places  — 
The  impudents!  they  blow  it  in  our  faces. 

Ah,  dainty  queen  of  tragedy,  come  down, 
And  on  your  pretty  head  receive  our  crown, 
All  garlanded  and  wreathed  in  fairy  land, 
Brought  o'er  the  waters  in  a  Naiad's  hand 
Fresh  from  the  beds  of  Cashmere  far  away, 
And  mines  of  Eldorado  on  the  way, 
Decked  with  the  gems  that  wait  no  mortal  eye 
But  give  themselves  to  fairies  that  pass  by, 
To  bead  the  crown  for  us  we  would  bestow, 
Upon  our  queen  of  tragedy  —  Marlowe. 

And  since  we  rise  among  the  larger  actors, 

We  wish  to  cancel  other  little  factors ; 

And  peeping  down  the  cycles  through  the  vistas, 

The  fogs  rise  up  so  thickly  that  the  mist  is 

Almost  impervious  to  the  flash  of  genius 

That  seems  to  rise  on  purpose  just  to  screen  us. 

But  as  we  muse  a  panorama  rises 

To  our  vfew  and  shows  us  great  surprises ; 


32  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

Could  you  behold  us  now  you'd  see  us  frowning, 

For  as  we  write  we  see  our  Robert  Downing, 

We  once  admired,  e'en  if  he  crippled  Damon 

And  hobbled  Pythias  as  he  frenzied  laymen. 

We  see  him  pleading,  bowing,  trembling,  shaking, 

Kneeling,  humbling,  begging,  stiffling,  quaking, 

And  cornered  by  old  Caesar,  for  a  libel, 

And  pleading  for  sweet  mercy  on  the  Bible ; 

We  behold  both  him  and  Caesar  talking, 

And  thousands  of  armed  Spartans  round  them  walking 

Each  crying  '  'VENGEANCE  !  " —  gods !  it  does  look  sickly 

To  see  them  crowding  on  our  friend  so  thickly, 

And  all  for  VENGEANCE, —  but  old  Caesar's  gamer 

Than  any  other,  but  he  acts  some  tamer 

(For  he's  seen  Downing  act),  and  says  "  You  see,  sir, 

For  years  you  tried  the  plays  that  pass  for  me,  sir, 

Or  Antony  that  praised  me,  and  I  swear 

No  Roman  ever  had  the  nerve  to  dare, 

What  you  have  done  ! 

Spartans  !  as  he  shakes  there, 
Take  him,  fork  him,  pitch  him  in  the  lakes  there 
That  burn  forever ! ' ' 

—  And  he  was  our  friend, 
But  friend  no  more,  destined  for  such  an  end. 

Since  it  is  just  the  hour  now  for  our  dinner, 
We'll  order  from  our  menu  Otis  Skinner, 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  33 

And  take  him  with  a  relish  —  stale  old  fellow, 

That's  wallowed  on  the  stage-field  till  he's  mellow ! 

O  Otis,  Otis !   we  could  kindly  greet  you 

Off  the  stage,  if  we  should  ever  meet  you; 

But  when  we  see  you  acting  like  a  monkey 

That's  been  half  trained,  or  like  a  spavined  donkey 

That  ancients  rode,  we  never  can  forgive  you, 

Though  you  act  on  as  long  as  ever  live  you. 

When  the  theater  calls  us,  we  are  going 

For  entertainment;  and  our  stage  was  growing 

More  in  favor  till  you  came  the  last  time 

And  filled  your  place  just  merely  as  to  pass  time. 

Your  acting  was  as  if  you  wished  to  shirk  us, 

And  we  mistook  your  play  for  some  old  circus ; 

The  ringmaster  and  clown  and  donkey,  too, 

All  rose  as  natural  as  they  were  in  view. 

Now,  change  your  style  ere  'nother  time  you  work  us, 

Or  call  your  show  by  right  name  — just  a  circus. 

We'll  weave  a  bouquet  for  the  matchless  Sarah 
Bernhardt  —  matchless  'cause  she  will  not  marry  — 
And  yet  Bernhardt,  and  Bernhardt  on  forever, 
And  Bernhardt  off  the  stage  is  the  most  clever, 
And  yet  her  acting  is  the  most  defiant ; 
Who  sees  her  takes  a  pygmy  for  a  giant. 
She's  so  impressive  one  flash  from  her  eyes, 
Can  put  the  stars  to  sleep  throughout  the  skies. 


34  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

Observatories  have  been  closed  of  late 

For  some  phenomenon  called  cosmic  state; 

Astronomers  keep  drifting  through  it  solving  — 

Though  baffled,  for  the  planets  cease  revolving  — 

And  calculations  missed  are  no  surprise 

When  traced  back  to  the  cause  —  'tis  Sarah's  eyes. 

And  since  with  all  the  stagestruck  we  must  tussle, 
We'll  seek  a  queen  and  call  on  Lillian  Russell 
To  step  before  our  footlights  till  we  crown  her, 
While  all  her  would-be  rivals  scowl  and  frown,  sir. 
She's  queen  the  same  in  all  the  roles  she  poses, 
Her  crown  shall  be  of  everlasting  roses, 
Webbed  with  exotics  and  most  fairy  pinions 
Dewed  with  rare  gems  up  into  countless  millions, 
And  each  gem  dropped  down  from  a  fairy's  finger, 
With  blessings,  praises,  that  around  her  linger; 
And  it  has  often  filled  us  with  strange  queries, 
When  we've  picked  Lillian  from  the  throng  of  fairies. 

Upon  the  verge  of  disappointment  seated, 
As  we  are  now,  our  Satire  not  completed, 
And  poverty  and  clouds,  and  not  a  ray, 
To  brighten  up  this  murky  dismal  day, 
We'll  grow  more  gloomy  and  call  F.  Marion 
Crawford  up  to  task,  and  take  the  carrion 


The  Gotham  of  Yasniar  35 

He  feeds  us  on,  and  analyze  a  morsel 

That  he  would  have  go  over  ev'ry  doorsill. 

Now,  he's  industrious,  if  we're  not  mistaken, 

If  nothing  more;  but  yet  our  faith  is  shaken 

Whene'er  we  read  him,  for  he's  been  too  sprightly 

In  turning  off  his  pages,  and  if  lightly 

We  were  to  let  him  go  he'd  more  abuse  us 

With  such  bad  stuff  we'd  ask  him  to  excuse  us. 

We  trust  the  people  will  not  ask  a  question, 

But  act,  and  quickly,  upon  our  suggestion. 

Now,  since  his  works  go  out  to  all  creations 

In  oceans,  floods,  and  rivers,  other  nations 

Should  help  us  curb  him  where  he's  overflowing 

And  drowning  out  what  others  may  be  sowing. 

He  should  be  seized  at  once  and  bound  and  gagged, 

For  better  game  than  he  has  oft  been  bagged, 

Just  think  of  "  Claudius,"  "  Isaacs,"  "  Politician," 

"A  Roman  Singer,"  "Leeward,"  or  "Magician," 

Or  anything,  if  Crawford's  written  it, 

That's  void  of  rhetoric  or  fiery  wit, — 

He's  guilty.     Ah,  the  acrobatic  vers'tile!  — 

He's  written  badly,  but  he  might  write  worse  still: 

Before  he  does,  'tis  well  that  he  be  bridled; 

And  if  we  catch  him,  no  time's  to  be  idled, 

For  he  writes  on  while  talking,  it  is  said, 

And  while  he's  sleeping,  snoring,  in  his  bed, 

And  we  suggest,  ere  'nother  flood  is  offered, 

That  we  choke  off  and  strangle  this  man  Crawford. 


36  The  Gotliaui  of  Yasmar 

Another,  too  —  we  b'lieve  they  call  him  Stoddard, 

In  letters  we  would  rank  .him  'bout  with  Goddard 

In  pugilism ;  and  from  this  we  will  not  waive, 

Though  Goddard  has  the  best  by  just  a  shave. 

Now,  letters,  they  should  always  have  the  preference,. 

In  similes,  or  metaphors,  or  reference; 

And  when  we  call  on  such  a  noted  writer 

To  stand  up  and  be  measured  by  a  fighter, 

He  should  feel  honored  if  he  is  no  higher 

Than  this  same  Goddard;  —  yet,  he  may  acquire 

An  altitude  e'en  even 'with  his  double, 

And  if  he  does  he'll  save  himself  much  trouble; 

He'll  then  quit  writing,  and  go  to  his  knitting, 

And  have  the  world's  kind  plaudits  for  his  quitting. 

Now,  there  is  Stockton,  whom  we'd  like  to  mention, 
Yet  'tis  a  shame  to  draw  the  world's  attention 
To  smaller  atoms;  yet,  we  dare  not  leave  him 
Without  a  notice,  lest  we  might  more  grieve  him. 
Our  microscope,  though  num'rous  in  diameter, 
Can  only  show  such  matter  in  hexameter; 
And  since  we  cannot  stop  to  focus  that, 
We'll  hoist  him  with  our  shoe  and  cry  out,  "Scat  /  " 

Ephemeral  dwarfs  that  scarce  have  any  length, 
In  letters  join  to  thus  promote  some  strength, 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  37 

Like  little  toddlers  in  a  school  half  taught, 

Each  crying,  "  See,  oh,  see  what  I  have  wrought !  " 

And  then  a  verse,  or  line,  or  epitaph, 

Tickles  the  ear  and  makes  the  list'ners  laugh 

At  the  wild  ribaldry,  and  join  in  praise 

Till  doggerel  bobs  up  dressed  in  classic  bays, 

And  all  who  have  ambition  and  not  genius, 

Seek  membership  where  once  you  may  have  seen  us; 

But  now,  repentant,  we'll  no  further  trouble  you, 

Dear  little  toddlers  of  the  W.  A.  W. 

We'll  walk  alone,  and  our  own  chance  we'll  take, 

And  row  our  own  boat,  but  not  on  the  lake 

Up  near  old  Warsaw,  where  the  little  few 

Assemble  yearly  to  praise  and  review 

Their  own  sad  efforts  which  lie  cold  in  death, 

Where  requiems  sung  are  only  wasted  breath. 

E'en  Ridpath  there  may  chant  a  sacred  mass, 

Or  Riley  woo  some  forty-year-old  lass; 

'Tis  all  the  same — a  corpse  must  so  remain  : 

What  corpse  was  ever  known  to  live  again? 

Ah,  such  a  crowd  of  would-be's,  by  the  way ! 

The  Nine  grow  jealous  and  all  fly  away. 

When  Parker  reads  or  Fishback  cuts  a  spludge, 

Apollo  harbors  in  his  breast  a  grudge, 

Calls  on  old  Gorgon  and  her  poison  snake 

To  drown  them  all  out  in  old  Eagle  Lake. 

They  shout,  applaud,  and  then  all  cry  dim-back, 

And  Will  bows  low,  picks  up  with  little  slack, 


38  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

Then  purges  some,  turns  up,  and  fires  away 

Till  each  leaf  trembles  on  its  tiny  spray, 

And  nods  unto  the  cadence  of  his  voice, 

While  the  old  lake  swells  up  as  to  rejoice, 

And  laps  its  beach  till  all  the  Naiads  start 

And  cry,  "  Cum -back,  Cum-back,"  with  pulsing  heart, 

"Sweet  doggerel,"  clothed  in  all  its  mystery, 

To  go  down  cycles  through  our  history ! 

Of  this  same  W.  A.  W.,  so  renowned, 

The  century  closes  and  by  it  is  crowned. 

Here  on  this  brink,  ah !  it  may  meet  no  more 

Till  Gabriel's  horn  shall  sound  from  shore  to  shore 

In  requiems  for  those  that  gathered  here. 


On  some  fair  nook  let  each  one  drop  a  tear, 

As  he  now  lives,  and  consecrate  the  place 

To  fame  that  crowds  the  world  into  a  space 

Of  ten  feet  square,  and  there  build  near  the  lake 

A  monument  just  for  sweet  memory's  sake. 

The  monument  may  be  all  that  you'll  leave 

To  the  posterity  that  for  you  grieve, 

And  we'll  suggest  these  lines  carved  deep  and  plain : 

"  Here  lie  the  victims  of  diseased  brain," 

Or  this:   "In  meetings  held  here  out  of  doors, 

Our  motto  was  '  Scratch  my  back,  I'll  scratch  yours' ; 


39 


And  when  we  scratched  we  were  so  nearly  matched 
The  scratcher  had  no  more  force  than  the  scratched. 
And  thus  we  died  unrecognized  :  go  hence, 
Old  world  so  cruel,  for  such  negligence!  " 

If  those  of  whom  we  write  get  mad  and  flourish 
A  weapon  in  our  face,  and  say  they'll  nourish 
The  earth  with  us,  we  shall  not  then  be  frightened, 
But  try  to  have  the  noose  we've  tied  well  tightened 
About  their  own  necks;  and  if  they  should  die  on 
Their  overflowing  anger,  we  will  sigh  on, 
And  write  a  dirge  that's  flavored  with  much  pity; 
But  what  we  write,  we'll  close  it  with  a  ditty. 


Part  II 

The  plutocrat  sends  out  to  us  air  bubbles  — 

The  substance  offered  to  heal  all  our  troubles : 

We  shout  for  him,  and  vote  for  him,  and  praise  him, 

And  fight  for  him,  and  strut  till  we  amaze  him; 

He  laughs  at  us,  but  yet  sends  on  more  bubbles. 

The  curtain  drops;  behind  the  scene  with  doubles, 

He  cries,  "What  fools!  "  but  sends  his  bubbles  on. 

We  smile,  and  praise,  and  take  them  till  he's  gone, 

Behold  ourselves  a  shadow,  day  by  day, 

And  wonder  why  we  thus  do  fade  away 

While  "benefactor"  swells  up  so  sedate; 

We  ponder  why  the  contrast  is  so  great. 

As  plenty  smiles  around  us  —  ah!  abundance, — 

He  (speaks  of  famine  ;  cries .-)  turns  round  to  clutch  it, 
And  smiles  while  starving  millions  see  redundance 

Waving  round  them,  yet  they  dare  not  touch  it. 
The  fertile  soil  of  nations  never  ceasing 
To  bring  forth  plenty,  and  each  year  increasing 
In  sweet  abundance,  while  the  steam  and  trolley 
Can  whisk  it  thither  —  make  the  whole  world  jolly, — 
And  joy  can  flash  from  north  to  south  o'er  lines, 
And  east  and  west,  where'er  the  sun's  ray  shines; 
But  yet  the  world's  dark  where  it  should  be  sunny  — 
For  want  of  what?     Ah  !   for  the  want  of  money. 

40 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  41 

Yet  who,  in  these  enlightened  days,  around  us, 

Believe  it  right  for  starving  eyes  to  hound  us 

From  any  place,  though  far  away  in  distance? 

We  reach  them,  for  we've  bridled  all  resistance 

In  nature's  gulf  except  the  selfish  human, 

And  this  must  be  till  God  makes  him  a  new  man  : 

And  ever  why  'tis  thus,  we  cannot  tell  it; 

Philosophy  falls  down,  yet  we  repel  it, 

E'en  if  we  must  not  know  the  very  reason — 

The  selfishness  of  man's  the  devil's  treason. 

We  shift  the  money  base  —  game  of  backgammon; — 

Starvation  follows,  and  we  call  it  famine, 

Like  far-off  India,  'neath  the  English  rod, 

Where  millions  starve;  we  call  it  plague  of  God, 

While  the  old  Lion  growls  and  looks  so  vague, 

The  world  joins  in,  and,  too,  pronounce  it  plague. 

My  country,  O  my  country! — d  —  n  it!  too; 

And  it  is  dammed  until  it's  overflowed 
With  all  the  drifting  trash  that  jams  into 

Its  creeping  garbage  —  and  more  to  be  towed 
O'er  what  is  here,  the  animalcula 
And  microbes  of  the  lowest  order,  they 
Come  on  to  be  devoured  in  schools  and  swarms 
By  sea-serpents  that  take  them  in  their  arms 
And  fondle  them,  then  pick  their  sinewy  bones, 
Un terrorized  by  all  their  saddened  groans. 


42  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

Those  serpents  !   how  they  prosper!   how  they  thrive! 

Though  dormant  in  their  nature,  they're  alive 

To  eat  the  substance  of  the  world  that's  held 

In  trust  for  them,  the  TRUSTS  THAT  ARE  so  SWELLED 

By  the  absorbing  of  all  that  they  touch 

Except  the  shadow,  goes  off  on  a  crutch 

A  shadow,  scarce  a  shadow  when  the  sun 

E'en  to  the  shade  would  make  the  Devil  run. 

Trusts  are  like  sponges,  that  can  never  fill  — 

Absorb  forever,  then  absorb  on  still ; 

And  when  they've  pumped  us  out  of  ev'ry  dollar 

We  go  off  to  ourselves  in  " mellow" -choler, 

And  nurse  our  wrath,  but  praise  the  trusts  right  on, 

But  for  their  lives  just  keep  the  big  fight  on, 

And  kiss  the  hand  that  smote  us  and  the  rod. 

We  won't;  we'll  take  it;  lay  it  on,  by  G — d ! 

And  if  that  serpent  lives,  'tis  not  our  fault ; 

We'll  fight  it,  if  we  have  to  live  on  salt, 

For  'tis  not  fair  to  lie  so  still  and  grow; 

'Tis  only  fair  for  those  to  reap  who  sow. 


My  country,  O  my  country!   and  I  think  it 
The  great  ship  still  so  long  upon  its  course 

Now  has  aboard  some  pilots  that  would  sink  it, 
For  their  own  selfish  gain,  without  remorse. 


77/6'  Gotham  of  Yasmar  43 

Abundance  bound  within  its  golden  sheaf, 

Still  cry  of  want  goes  on,  and  no  relief, 

On  either  hand;  it  comes  spontaneous,  too; 

While  plenty  teases  to  the  famished's  view. 

There  is  no  money  only  for  the  few; 

The  many  must  'go  on  and  fret  and  stew 

The  tradesman  cries,  "  More  funds!  "  the  artisan, 

He  cries,  "  More,"  too;    and  in  his  wild  distress 
The  banker  shrieks  and  breaks  up  as  he  can, 

And  cries  "  More  money !  "  as  he  votes  for  less. 


Oh,  how  we're  drifting !  and  to  what  a  ban  ! 

The  governors,  scarcely  men  in  some  great  states — 
In  one  the  chief  has  killed  a  boy  or  man  — 

They  now  wield  weapons  that  can  seal  the  fates 
Of  any  that  would  dare  to  do  the  same 
As  they  have  done;  and  to  their  country's  shame 
If  not  their  own, —  but  more  we  must  forbear, 
But  groan,  and  think,  and  pine,  and  pull  our  hair, 
And  go  off  to  the  mountains  in  our  rages 
To  die  alone  before  they  read  our  pages. 
We  owe  respects  to  many  of  our  statesmen 

For  giving  us  so  plenty  of  distress: 
The  greatest  are  as  good  as  a  third-ratesman 

In  statesmanship,  and  many  mark  much  less. 


44 


Remember,  as  you  read,  that  hardly  ever 
We  find  the  full-fledged  statesman  who  has  never 
Disgraced  the  halls  of  Congress  with  his  twaddle, 
And  plunged  a  while  in  crime,  to  then  skedaddle. 
We  do  not  mean  that  all  those  are  third-raters ; 
They  are  a  size  less  than  such  large  debaters. 
The  third  ones  are  so  great  they  can  defy  us; 
And  if  they  can't  do  this,  they  then  will  buy  us. 
For  those  we  bow,  and  send  our  soul  above 
And  ask  it  to  cart  back  a  tray  of  love 
Fresh  from  His  grace  and  loftiest  position 
That  e'er  was  reached  by  souls  sent  on  this  mission. 


Invocation. 

God,  pour  thy  blessings  down  on  each  one's  noddle 
That's  grown  so  rich  and  fat  he  scarce  can  waddle; 
And  in  thy  blessings,  God,  if  you  should  miss  us, 
We  are  content  to  know  where  all  thy  bliss  was. 
We  know,  O  God,  that  thou  wilt  not  miss  any 
Who  have  for  self  exacted  ev'ry  penny 
For  slipping  through  a  bill  of  no  pretensions, 
E'en  if  when  through  it  corners  all  dimensions 
Remember  in  thy  blessings,  God,  remember 
John  Sherman  in  September  and  December, 
And  through  the  years  to  come  give  all  the  blessing 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  45 

Thou  wouldst  bestow  upon  his  statesmen  brothers, 

And  pour  them  on  him  and  pour  on  no  others 

Through  those  two  months,  and  let  the  rest  go  guessing: 

For  if  the  devil  gets  them  'twill  be  better; 

They  then  can  pay  him  back,  for  they're  his  debtor 

To  a  large  sum  —  but  he  resumed,  and  they  — 

What  did  they  do  ?  ah  !  what,  but  to  obey  ? 

Remember  all  this  till  we  come  again, 

And  thou  shalt  e'er  be  praised  for  it. —  Amen. 

NOTE  : — We  failed  to  get  the  blessings. 

The  President  elect  now  takes  his  seat  — 

Mark  Hanna  and  McKinley,  two  in  one, — 
While  Billy  Bryan,  who  just  met  defeat, 

Consoles  himself  because  he  had  not  won 
The  victory.     Himself  against  such  double 

Kept  him  so  busy  on  the  run  and  jump  — 
And  dodging  fouls,  that  gave  him  so  much  trouble  — 

That  he  could  not  get  round  on  ev'ry  stump  — 
And  knock  the  guards  down  that  were  up  for  him; 

Yet  he  kept  him  (it)  guessing  as  he  run, 
And  made  a  knock-out  by  a  chance  so  slim 

The  whole  world  wondered  when  the  double  won. 

Now,  since  he  (it)  has  gone  to  Washington, 
And  banks  are  breaking,  and  the  people  mad, 

And  the  wage-earner  cannot  get  his  wage, 

But  after  voting  left  to  live  on  rage 


46  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

And  wind  and  water,  can  he  (it)  be  glad 
That  he's  (it's)  in  the  presidential  chair, 
When  all  the  country  is  in  such  despair 
And  he's  (it's)  fenced  in  by  a  golden  wall 

With  just  such  few,  and  that  few  to  deny 

A  silv'ry  lining  for  the  poor  man's  eye  — 
And  pocketbook? 

But  here  the  critics  call, 
And  say  that  politics  should  not  creep  in 

Especially  in  a  one-sided  way. 
We've  done  no  more,  sir,  than  just  to  peep  in 

Upon  the  scenes  before  us  ev'ry  day; 
And  we've  seen  plenty  smiling  all  around 

And  heard  the  cry  of  hunger  mid  it  all, 
And,  God  forbid  !  but  we  have  felt  the  wound 

That  hunger  makes,  and  —  d — n  the  dogs  that  call 
Us  up  to  task  for  writing  as  we  must 
And  tearing  masks  from  faces  so  unjust. 

Should  Mark  not  be  the  double  of  McKinley, 
And  his  warm  friends  in  Cleveland  or  in  Findlay 
(Oh,  why  should  we  be  local,  when  our  nation —  » 
Not  only  ours,  but  those  of  all  creation 
Know  Mark  so  well  ?)  see  that  we  have  missed  him, 
They  will  be  angry;  so  we  must  here  list  him. 
We'll  put  a  question  to  you,  Mr.  Hanna, 
And  may  it  please  your  grace  to  answer: 


The  Gotham  of  )  'asmar  47 

Can  a 

Trust  live  thriving,  fat'ning,  if  you're  in  it, 
And  at  the  same  time  browsing  in  the  Senate? 
As  to  our  thoughts,  we  hardly  think  it  can,  sir; 
But  really,  Mark,  we'd  rather  have  you  answer. 
We  know  you  are  so  heavy,  Mr.  Hanna, 
That  should  you  not  slip  up  on  a  banana, 
Which  had  been  reft  of  all  the  meat  within  it, 
You'd  put  your  great  foot  on  its  neck  and  pin  it 
So  tightly  down  its  face  would  turn  so  black, 
That  its  great  tongue  would  loll,  and  plead  for  slack, 
But  only  plead  by  strangled  twitch  alone, 
For  any  tinsel  of  sweet  mercy  shown  ; 
While  down  your  heel  in  tension  tighter  presses 
As  you  do  cry  while  o'er  its  form,  "Distresses 
You've  wrought  among  mankind  are  past  accounting: 
You  SHALL  NOW  DIE!  " — the  other  foot  now  mounting 
To  its  place,  on  gurgling  neck  that's  pleading 
By  gurgles  only  as  its  life's  receding. 
Now,  Mark,  this  is  a  picture ;  and  we  feel, 
That  you  would  look  for  some  kind  of  a  peel, 
To  slip  up  on  just  when  you'd  made  the  spring, 
And  miss  your  Mark,  then  nurse  it  'neath  your  wing. 
Now,  Sir  Mark,  if  you  think  we've  judged  you  wrong, 
Just  tax  to  our  bedeviled  muse's  song. 

The  Czar's  enthroned  in  purple  and  in  yellow  — 
The  hale  old  Czar  well  met,  a  noble  fellow, 


48  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

Who  came  to  Congress  from  the  Maine  brain  district, 
And  brought  its  brains,  enough  to  know  to  restrict 
The  posing  statesmen  to  the  gag  rule  given 
By  "  Parliament " — and  he  is  that,  sir,  even 
More  than  the  gag  rule,  for  he  adds  to  it 
Whate'er  he  wants  —  the  statesmen,  they  pursue  it. 
He  must  be  greater  than  Demosthenes, 
Cicero,  or  Catiline,  Orestes, 
Scipio,  or  Virgil,  down  to  Tottle, 
For  he  just  takes  old  "  Parley  "  by  the  throttle, 
And  whips  him  round  to  any  place  he  pleases, 
Then  winks  a  little  while  old  "  Parley  "  sneezes; 
He  has  so  broadened  "  Parley  "  that  each  speaker 
Becomes  seasick  before  he  sails,  and  meeker 
Than  the  shorn  lamb,  as  his  thoughts  do  scatter 
So  lost  in  chaos  that  the  subject  matter 
Flies  off  on  tangents,  leaving  him  to  stutter 
In  language  that  a  monkey  might  well  utter. 
There  was  a  time  when  Greece  stood  in  her  glory, 
And  "  Parley  "  stood  amidst  her,  white  and  hoary, 
Supreme,  to  which  they  bowed  most  reverently, 
And  looked  upon  for  guidance  most  contently. 
For  centuries  old  "  Parley  "  took  his  stand, 
Unrolled  his  parchment  in  his  withered  hand; 
The  world  around  read  rules  he'd  written,  too, 
And  bowed  obedience  to  his  laws  so  true: 
Then  eloquence  was  measured  in  its  sphere 


The  Gotham  of  }  'asuiar  49 

By  its  own  god,  who  stood  without  a  peer :  — 
Transplanted,  served  us  for  a  century  here, 
Then  murdered  and  borne  off  without  a  bier 

7 

By  one  so  great  his  precepts  would  not  heed  — 

He  killed  him.     Who?     Why,  Thomas  Brackett  Reed  ! 

We  have  not  time  to  take  up  each  one  singly, 

And  dress  him  down;  but  there  is  Mr.  Dingley, 

From  up  in  the  north  corner  of  old  Maine, 

Where  soil  is  famous  for  producing  brain : 

He  hovers  o'er  the  nest  eggs  that  were  laid 

'Way  back  in  ninety  when  our  Benny  preyed 

Upon  the  country;  and  the  very  fate 

Of  trusts  rests  in  those  eggs  to  incubate; 

And  Dingley  now  so  restless  is  the  setter, 

And  moves  about  so  much,  we  think  he'd  better 

Get  off  the  nest.     E'en  if  he  hatched  —  the  nestlings, 

What  would  they  be,  but  really  little  "jest/ings," 

Half-breeds,  and  Albinos,  Prohis,  Poppies, 

Pubies,  Demies,  Goldies,  little  "Floppies" 

All  to  be  wheeled  out  on  good  silver  dollars, 

While  all  the  mess  with  swelled  necks  burst  their  collars. 

Be  ready  to  get  on;  the  cart,  it's  coming, 

And  only  three  years  distant  —  hear  it  drumming! 

The  gov'nor  of  our  state's  a  pretty  Mount, 
But  mighty,  if  you  please,  and  hard  to  lead; 


50  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

•«v 

Yet  he  will  go,  but  only  by  the  fount 

That  gives  up  draughts  pure  as  the  dewy  bead. 
Upon  the  farm  he  plowed  the  corn  and  wheat, 
Turned  down  the  briar  with  the  weed  and  cheat ; 
He's  farming  still,  and  with  his  share  he  turns 
The  walking  weeds,  the  which  his  conscience  spurns 
With  the  same  ardor.     When  he  once  gets  through 
The  farming  of  our  state,  we'll  find  it  freed 
From  much  the  worthless  that  had  gone  to  seed, 
And  scattered  broadcast,  and  had  rankly  grew. 

'Tis  now  the  season :   his  wild  horses  meet, 
In  legislative  session  ;  each  retreat 
Is  filled  to  brim  ;  and  those  of  pedigree 
Join  in  the  festive  swells  of  jubilee 
For  sixty  days;  and  they're  so  hard  to  bridle, 
Their  little  groom  has  no  time  to  be  idle, 
But  must  go  dodging  round  amid  the  throng 
And  muzzle  some,  and  strangle  with  the  thong 
The  wilder  ones.      E'en  the  old  grizzled  st— ds 
Must  be  well  tethered  from  the  younger  bloods 
That  rant  around,  or  they'll  be  tramped  in  mire 
As  ruthlessly  as  if  they  were  the  briar. 

Blood  tells !  and  when  we  look  down  on  the  mass, 
'Tis  hard  to  tell  which  is  the  horse  or  ass; 
The  latter  has  improved  so  much  of  late 
The  former  guards  with  jealous  eye  his  fate; — 


The  GotJiam  of  Yasmar  5  i 

To  show  their  greatness,  horse  and  ass  debate. 
Way  off  in  a  lone  corner,  hear  a  bray — 

Deep,  solemn  bray, — then,  near,  a  little  screech, 
While  over  by  the  wall  are  colts  at  play 

That  grizzled  ones  would  kick  if  they  could  reach. 
Soon  whinny  answers  whinny,  screech,  and  bray, 
And  bray  then  answers  whinny  far  away, 
Till  whinny,  bray,  and  screech  become  so  bold 
Which  whinnied,  brayed,  or  screeched  could  not  be  told ; 
The  atmosphere  grows  hot,  and  the  ozone, 
Burns  out  like  fuses  on  a  high-pitched  tone ; 
And  when  they've  noised  till  they  can  noise  no  more, 
They  champ  their  bits,  paw  air,  and  stamp  the  floor; 
And  all  their  actions  ever  indicated 
Were  those  which  proved  old  Darwin  vindicated. 

If  of  the  many  gov'nors  we're  to  judge 
By  ex's,  then  we  say  we  have  a  grudge 
At  ex's,  and  we  feel  our  tax  is  due 
Before  'tis  levied,  and  we'll  pay  it,  too. 

In  New  York  state  we  see  a  Flower  set  on 
A  Hill,  which  we  would  in  no  way  bet  on 
Growing,  for  its  petals  they  are  olden, 

They're  falling  to  the  breeze  in  ev'ry  way, 
And  still  they  have  one  look,  and  that  is  golden, 

Yet  no  one  will  take  from  them  a  nosegay, 


52  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

We  know  not  why,  unless  it  is  the  Hill 

So  hard  to  climb,  and  Flower  so  little  worth 
That  'tis  agreed  that  it  remain  there  still 

To  fall  'neath  its  own  blush  and  not  come  forth. 
It  might  have  bloomed  in  fragrance  and  in  beauty 
Had  Hill  and  Flow'rboth  been  true  to  duty; 
The  Hill  must  now  remain  as  nature's  shelf, 
To  hold  the  Flower  that  blooms  there  by  itself. 

The  ex's  that  we  shoot  at  are  but  few 

And  far  between,  but  yet  we'll  range  our  gun 

So  the  projectile  may  go  on  into 

The  states  they  live  in,  and  hit  them  as  they  run. 

We'll  turn  it  now  on  Texas,  and  we'll  shoot 

A  solid  ball  of  silver  in  the  camp 
Of  Mr.  Hogg.     'Tis  said  he  will  not  root, 

E'en  if  he's  Mr.  Hogg,  a  Texas  swamp. 
Now,  Mr.  Hogg,  if  you  don't  think  that  we 
Like  pork  as  good  as  you,  just  come  and  see: 
We  like  you,  too,  because  you  smoke  the  bacon 
To  save  our  country  that's  so  badly  shaken, 
And  love  you  more  because  you've  done  so  much 
To  get  it  off  its  present  single  crutch. 
You  brought  the  empire  of  all  Germany, 

Through  her  own  "Iron  Man,"  the  great  Bismarck, 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  53 

Into  our  lines,  which  gave  us  victory 

Almost,  which  would  have  saved  the  country's  bark, 
That's  flound'ring  now  within  a  mighty  wave 
And  struggling  hard  to  keep  from  out  her  grave; 
And  she'll  keep  out,  but  has  had  a  close  call; 
But  next  time  we  will  save  gold-bug  and  all! 

In  Arkansas,  with  all  its  fertile  acres  — 

Made  fertile  by  the  prosp'rous  undertakers, — 

Where  health  and  vigor  fall  so  fast  around  them 

They  scarce  can  make  the  haste  enough  to  ground  them ; 

Where  people  die  without  the  doctor's  physic, 

Without  disease,  or  e'en  the  slightest  phthisic, 

So  sudden,  too,  the  patient  keeps  his  boots  on, 

And  ere  he's  planted,  still  the  doctor  shoots  on, 

Thus  adding  to  his  list  as  he  goes  feeing 

The  undertakers —  'tis  a  sight  worth  seeing. 

'Tis  strange,  indeed,  it  took  so  many  rangers 

To  cope  with  two  well  "armed"  prize-fighting  strangers, 

When  all  the  people  of  this  mighty  state, 

Were  called  to  arms  —  /;///  met  in  joint  debate, 

Debating  plans  that  they  might  quick  repulse  them, 

And  if  not  kill  them,  knew  they  could  convulse  them, 

Or  ali  the  sister  states  that  sat  back  grinning 

To  see  the  fighters  come  so  near  to  winning. 

Oli,  what  a  battle  royal  'twas  to  see 

The  whole  of  Arkansas's  trained  soldiery 


54  The  Gotham  of  J  ^asmar 

In  line  of  march!     The  brave  ones  onward  flood 

The  soil  that's  soon  to  be  drenched  with  their  blood, 

Led  onward  by  a  knightly  gov'nor's  skill, 

Where  steel  'gainst  flesh  is  wielded  but  to  kill, 

Undaunted  on,  unto  the  gulf  of  fate, 

In  Little  Rock  to  parley  and  debate, 

Then  rendezvous  their  armies  in  array 

Of  mighty  forces  for  the  fatal  fray, 

THEN  CHARGE  THE  FOE;  and  out  fly  two  right  arms, 

Which  send  the  vanguards  back  in  quick  alarms 

For  reinforcements.     Mad  to  agony, 

They  charge  again,  and  shout  for  victory, 

With  mighty  rush  in  one  broad  phalanx.     Soon 

The  t\vo  are  routed,  "horse,  foot,  and  dragoon," 

But  slightly  wounded,  as  they  run  away, 

To  live  and  fight  again  some  other  day,* 

In  young  Nevada,  where  the  statesmen  barter 

In  prize  fighting,  and  where  they  pose  much  smarter 

Than  they  do  over  in  old  Arkansas, 

Where  law  that's  made  sometimes  reflects  on  law  — 

Especially  that  made  for  speculation, 

And  so  much  of  it  it  becomes  inflation  ! 


*  The  Corbett-Fitzsimmons  prize  fight  was  booked  to  take  place  in 
Arkansas.  The  governor,  not  being  able  to  cope  with  them  in  preventing 
the  moral  dignity  of  the  state  from  being  ''punched  "  to  death  by  such 
formidable  pugilists,  called  out  the  militia  of  the  state,  and  after  the  first 
encounter,  the  militia  being  "  bested,"  called  out  the  brave,  majestic  leg 
islators  of  his  state,  \yho,  after  a  desperate  struggle,  succeeded  in  routing 
the  trespassing  pugilists.  The  world  looked  on  and  applauded  the  cour 
age  of  this  great  commonwealth. 


The  Gotham  of  }  \is»iar  5  5 

Nevada  senators  and  little  Repies, 

The  gov'nor  and  his  staff  and  all  their  dep-ies 

Nurse  to  their  breasts  what  Arka  did  disdain  so, 

And  shake  her  head,  and  coquette  and  complain  so, 

And  viewed  it  with  much  favor  —  not  so  bad  a 

Law  as  to  exclude  it  from  Nevada; 

E'en  better  than  the  laws  of  older  sisters 

Governed  by  old  suave  baldhead  misters, 

Who  have  been  favored  through  the  chance  of  stealths. 

To  set  the  seals  of  their  old  commonwealths. 

Ah !  see  her  sitting  in  her  robes  of  scarlet  — 

The  sweet  Nevada,  flushed  with  rose  tints  fairer 
Than  those  that  rippled  o'er  the  face  of  Charlotte, 

Or  Desdemona,  Cleopatra,  rarer 
E'en  than  the  beauty  of  the  world  around  her, 
When  flow'rs  from  vales  of  Cashmere  do  surround  her. 
Ah!  take  Nevada  to  your  bosoms — crush  her, 

Ye  slaves  to  combat,  till  she  droops  and  dies : 
Then  like  some  friv'lous  thing  just  lightly  brush  her 

Aside  from  mem'ry,  then  look  where  she  lies 
And  see  the  figure  of  sweet  beauty  stand 
O'er  her  dead  ashes  with  a  crown  and  wand, 
A  virgin  phoenix  weeping  on  the  scene! 
Forget,  then,  if  you  will,  the  martyred  queen  ! 

We'll  load  again  with  dynamite  and  powder, 
And  ram  her  full  —  yes,  to  the  muzzle  crowd  her; 


For  now  the  shot's  more  dangerous  than  any 

We've  made  before,  and,  too,  we  have  made  many. 

Our  mark  is  ranged  'way  o'er  the  mighty  Rockies, 

A  living  mark  that  takes  a  place  with  jockeys 

Of  highest  rank,  as  on  his  courser  sits  he 

E'en  when  the  blood  of  battle's  "  to  its  bits  "  —  see?  — 

Ah!  deeper,  if  you  please,  and  will  not  crust  him; 

E'en  if  it  runs  so  deep  his  charger  must  swim, 

He's  there  the  same;  so  if  we  should  not  hit  him, 

And  fail  to  make  an  ocean  flow  between  us 

Of  human  blood,  and  nothing  more  to  screen  us, 
He  has  us  sure,  for  we  cannot  then  get  him, 

So  we  must  be  as  careful  in  our  aiming, 

As  ever  gunner  was  in  savage  gaming. 
We're  ready  now,  but  tremble  with  such  rigor 

That  we'll  be  d d  if  we  can  pull  the  trigger 

For  fear  we'll  miss  our  mark,  and  then  the  gunner 
Would  be  a  goner  sure,  instead  of  punner. 

So  ride  on,  Gov'nor,  we  will  not  molest  you; 
Just  let  us  be,  and  we'll  no  further  jest  you, 
For  we  confess  that  we  are  now  most  nervous, 
And  don't  want  you  to  ride  through  blood  to  serve  us. 

But  since  we  have  the  charge  we  saved  our  life  for, 

We'll  wheel  it  round  on  little  big  Jo  Fifer 

And  let  her  go,  so  far  above  his  head, 

That  he  will  know  we  do  not  wish  him  dead. 


57 


No\v,  since  ex-Altgeld's  gone  up  to  Chicago, 

And  we  have  read  the  scene  in  which  lago 

Was  the  main  actor,  we  are  now  full  ready 

To  shoot  again  and  hold  our  piece  more  steady: 

But  we  don't  care  to  range  on  Illinois; 

We'll  bring  down  larger  game,  as  we  employ 

Our  gun  and  ammunition  on  some  great,  or 

Ex,  who  went  browsing  in  some  Western  state,  or 

Hunting  expedition  (for  a  gov'nor's  chair, 

The  which  he  captured  ere  he'd  been  a  year  there). 

For  Congress,  too :   if  they  do  not  employ  us 

To  vote  for  East  or  Middle  States,  we'll  ramble 
In  hot  haste  west,  where  they  will  more  enjoy  us, 

While  we  avoid  the  wild  Comanche  scramble 
Of  politicians  that  have  oft  bereft  us 
Of  our  spoils;  and  as  they  have  thus  left  us, 
We'll  leave  them,  and  go  off  in  a  hurry 
Where  politics  are  not  done  in  such  flurry, 
And  far  beyond  the  Rockies  rusticate 
To  soon  become  the  gov'nor  of  a  state 
Or  go  to  Congress, — somewhat  like  a  preacher 
Just  ground  out  —  too  sickly  for  a  teacher, 
Not  strong  enough  in  mind  for  an  attorney, 

Too  slow  to  get  from  business  just  a  slice, 
So  when  a  boy  they  send  him  on  a  journey, 

To  mills  that  grind  out  rev'rends  in  a  trice; 


58  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

And  when  he  is  run  through  the  miller's  spout, 
His  evidence  of  learning  is,  he  looks  devout. 

We'll  Sandwich  (Island)  up  our  satire  now 
With  ex-Queen  Lil,  who  has  just  made  her  bow 
Before  the  President  —  bowed  low  and  haughty, 
And  told  him  that  our  country  had  been  naughty 
To  not  replace  the  crown  upon  her  brow, 
And  that  such  insult  she  could  not  allow 
To  go  unchallenged  without  recompense: 

She  struck  an  attitude  of  self-defense, 

And  said,  "  What  say  you,  Grover  ?  out  with  it ! 

You've  always  been  my  friend;  that  friendship  yet 

I  covet  most:  since  you're  to  soon  step  down, 

Restore  my  fortune  or  restore  my  crown !  " 

And  down  before  his  august  presence  dropped. 

(The  old  clock  in  the  tower  in  pity  stopped.) 

The  President  looked  weary;  as  he  stood 

So  penitent,  he  really  did  look  good; 

And  by  much  effort  spoke  he, — "Sorry,  Lil, 

You  were  bereft;  'twas  done  against  my  will. 

Too  late  to  help  you;  go  live  on  your  pension !  " 

She   rose,    said,   "Thank    you";    he    replied,   "Don't 

mention  !  " 

And  thus  they  parted,  if  you  please, —  I  say 
I  think  they  did, —  and  Lili  went  her  way. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  59 

The  Chinese  noble  that  has  just  been  over, 

Just  one  of  him  that  came  to  visit  Grover, 

And  this  was  Li,  while  Chang,  he  went  out  spreeing 

Conveyed  by  Hung  to  see  all  sights  worth  seeing, 

To  be  explicit,  we  will  have  to  noun  Li, 

As  we  do  Chang,  but  yet  we  must  verb  Hung, 
And  treat  them  to  good  grammar,  and  comply 

With  laws  of  rhetoric,  and  old  songs  sung, 
Because  the  Chinese,  they  are  so  well  lettered, 
And  have  so  many  titles,  they  are  fettered, 
And  tow'rso  high,  and  look  down  so  sedately, 
That  we  are  forced  to  treat  each  separately : 
Li  HUNG  CHANG  ('tis  said);  yet  we  know  not  why 
That  Chang  should  be  hung  by  such  one  as  Li, 
Since  hanged  and  hangman  both  came  to  our  nation, 
To  teach  it  that  it  should  go  on  probation, 
Or  follow  old  Confucius'  paradoxes, 
Or  other  of  the  Oriental  foxes. 
We'll   take   the   rope   from   Chang's  neck   and    string 

Hung  — 

Then  who  can  say  that  Hung  too  was  not  strung? — 
And  let  Li  go  alone  home  to  his  fairies, 
E'en  if  they  do  kill  off  our  missionaries; 
But  should  he  come  with  other  ones  attached, 
He  too,  with  them,  will  next  time  be  despatched ; 
And  reciprocity  we  will  adopt, 
For  killing  us  in  China  must  be  stopped. 


60  TJie  Gotham  of  Yasiuar 

The  value  of  old  Li  seems  very  great  — 

A  thousand  of  us  scarcely  adequate 

We  send  down  to  the  Orient  for  their  help; 

So  if  he  comes  again,  we'll  take  his  scalp, 

And  balance  up.     E'en  then  we'll  be  their  debtor, 

Although  we've  killed  their  greatest  old  abettor. 

The  way  nations  pay  their  debts  to  us,  it  varies; 

Some  pay  us  killing  off  our  missionaries, 

Thus  go  on  robbing  through  religious  skill, 

By  killing  ours  when  they  have  none  to  kill; 

Like  other  fools  we  still  go  on  to  trade 

In  stocks  they  have  not  —  or  just  to  be  slayed, 

And  when  one  comes  here  that  will  count  for  many 

We  let  him  go.     Why  not  square  to  a  penny? 

But  in  a  way  we  dare  not  ever  meet  them, 

For  they  can  eat  us,  and  we  cannot  eat  them  — 

At  least,  we  think  not,  for  they  are  so  sallow 

And  look  so  tough,  with  scarcely  any  tallow. 

With  this  advantage  having  to  defeat  us, 

Will  we  still  go  there  when  we  know  they'll  eat  us 

And  we  can  not  eat  them?     I  hardly  think  so! 

You  sly  old  Li,  no  more;  you  need  not  wink  so; 

By  winking,  when  away,  you  may  defy  us, 

But  when  among  us,  you  can  only  try  us ! 

When  you  first  came,  we  set  our  guns  to  booming, 

But  'tis  no  sign  that  you  should  be  presuming 

We  love  you  more,  or  well  enough  to  eat  you  : 

'  Twos  policy  that  forced  us  thus  to  greet  you ; 


The  Gotliam  of  Vasmctr  61 

We  want  your  tea,  your  rice,  without  contagion, 
Your  money,  not  your  gods  or  your  religion : 
And  the  salvation  that  we  learned  from  Wesley, 
Or  Martin  Luther,  learned  it  just  expressly 
To  save  ourselves,  but  offer  now  to  you, 
So  liberal,  we  want  to  save  you  too ; 
But  if  you  roast  the  few  who  with  you  dwell, 
We'll  take  it  back,  and  let  you  go  to  hell ! 

Dear  Mr.  Tillman,  stick  your  fork  well  in, 

And  pitch  the  slimy  reptiles  in  the  lake 
That  grows  so  foul  with  their  obnoxious  sin 

They  keep  the  Devil  all  the  time  awake 
To  live  with  them.     So,  headlong  let  them  go ; 

Tailed  or  untailed  or  detailed,  fork  them  down 
So  numerously  that  the  lake  below 

Becomes  so  slimy  that  they  cannot  drown, 
But  form  into  a  kind  of  fetid  crust, 
To  cement  hell  up  with  their  poison  dust. 
There  let  them  smolder  in  their  infamy, 
The  Gorgons  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


Part  III 


We'll  now  proceed  amid  the  cold  world's  jams, 
To  rid  ourselves  of  more  spasmodic  qualms. 
The  Devil  dances  where  the  coward  swerves, 
And  sudden  changes  break  in  on  the  nerves; 
So  fan  the  fire  that  roasts  our  victims  well 
To  make  them  feel  less  when  they  drop  in  hell : 
We'll  acclimate  them  ere  they  reach  their  goals, 
And  have  less  pity  for  their  tortured  souls. 
When  we  began,  we  thought  we  would  be  local, 

On  whom  our  light  artillery  should  be  pointed, 
And  on  the  rest  we'd  vent  our  spleen  out  vocal; 

But  that  would  make  our  satire  so  disjointed 
We  fear  its  members  never  would  be  found, 
And  go  to  pieces  creeping  all  around: — 
The  little  ones  in  Gotham,  with  the  others 
Who  are  so  great,  by  this  can  all  be  brothers ; 
And  Gotham  yet,  don't  ask  us  to  her  revels, 
E'en  if  we've  ranked  her  with  the  greatest  devils, 
For  what  civilian  would  not  like  to  see, 
A  thousand  devils  in  their  revelry? 
And  for  this  slight  our  wrath  shall  not  diminish, 
But  on  the  vitriol  goes  until  we  finish. 
62 


The  Gotham  of  Yasniar  63 

Scurrility's  abhorred  by  classic  taste ; 
Yet,  boiling  over  and  with  time  to  waste, 
We'll  lift  the  valve,  still  bid  the  venom  flow, 
And  cram  the  mixture  down  each  ruthless  foe, 
Who'll  smack  his  lips  on  all  he's  forced  to  quaff, 
And  join  our  pleasure  by  his  strangled  laugh. 

We  promise  each  who's  forced  to  take  his  dose 

'Tis  but  the  pure  fermented  bellicose; 

In  broken  doses  taken  voluntary 

It  might  hurt  some  —  'twould  surely  kill  the  scarey, — 

But  those  whose  throats  we  roughly  ram  it  down 

'Twill  only  cripple,  as  it  does  their  town. 

If  pitfalls  dug  for  us  catch  other  game, 
And  keys  to  them  are  ours,  who'll  be  to  blame 
If  that  game  be  the  diggers,  and  our  hate 
Still  smolders  on,  defying  any  fate? 

Here's  at  our  theme,  our  town  of  open  ditches 

That  smokes  with  fogs  that  rise  from * 

Dissolving  in  them,  as  they  wallow  down 
The  "classic"  gutters  of  the  blistered  town. 


*  Dogs,  if  the  reader  please,  yet  he  may  supply  any  other  rhythm  he 
may  think  suitable  for  the  occasion.  The  town  in  the  time  of  which  we 
write  had  no  sewers,  and  the  debris  of  every  kind  was  allowed  to  decom 
pose  (with  the  town),  the  mixture  being  occasionally  pressed  down  with 
what  was  known  in  ancient  times  as  the  Reynolds-Yasmar  roller,  a 
relic  of  more  ancient  times  even  then. 


64  /V/c'  Gotham  of  J  'asmar 

In  dog  days,  when  rain  pours  down  on  this  city, 

And  heavens  flush  the  streets  through  groans  of  pity, 

From  ev'ry  source  the  stench  of  kennels  flow 

I'pon  the  waves  that  bear  them  as  they  go. 

While  caps  of  filthy  bubbles  plainly  tell 

The  streets  they  come  from  by  their  awful  smell ; 

And  as  the  current  speeds  upon  its  course, 

It  clogs  in  spite  of  filth's  relentless  force. 

Beginning  near  friend  Zach's  upon  the  ridge, 

It  dumps  its  cargoes  'long  toward  Sp-r-y's  bridge, 

Sweeping  the  butchers'  stalls  of  guts  and  blood, 

Drowned  dogs  and  cats,  too,  mixing  in  the  mud; 

It  heaves  along  in  waves  of  thicker  slush 

Down  past  the  court  house,  where  the  lawyers  rush 

Into  their  own  dear  elements,  the  wave 

They  long  to  ride  —  mixed  with  the  mush  they  crave. 

First,  to  those  legal  lights  that  wink  so  far 

That  each  wink  darkens  down  some  special  star, 

Till  'shamed  it  is  to  shed  its  golden  light, 

But  blinks  a  little,  then  goes  out  of  sight: 

A  day  with  Blackstone  —  then  the  court  will  pass, 

The  candidate,  a  lawyer  or  an  ass, — 

The  honors  elevate  about  the  same, 

The  only  difference  being  in  the  name. 

Most  choose  the  latter  for  its  doleful  bray ; 

The  limb  is  branded,  and  he  goes  his  way. 


The  (rotliani  of  )  'asiuar  65 

Wtlen  thieves  and  knaves  are  stamped  with  legal  (-arc. 

"  Solicitors,"  God  grant  us  to  compare 

Such  foreign  substances  as  they  contain 

To  selves;  thus  honored,  they  should  not  complain. 

'Tis  substances  will  suffer  in  the  art 

Of  the  comparing  —  much  the  better  part. 

When  court  is  called,  each  time  the  country's  lights 

Flood  its  base  temple,  to  protect  the  rights 

Of  litigants.     They  come  in  swarms  and  schools  : 

The  sheriff  brands  them  as  he'd  brand  his  mules  : 

Each  has  a  vote,  and  seeks  this  time  to  graze 

Upon  the  country's  "fodder"  and  its  "maize" ; 

Twelve  fill  the  jury  box,  the  hundred  stand 

Like  buzzards  on  a  waste  of  desert  land 

Beholding  an  old  horse  gaze  at  the  moon, 

Before  he  dies,  and  like  them  nod  and  croon. 

These  are  the  stars,  the  thinkers  of  the  land 

Unrav'ling  that  a  judge  can't  understand; 

God  give  them  vent  with  foreheads  high  and  "  shaped," 

For  mud  that  made  them  surely  was  well  "aped"  ! 

They  see  with  mouths,  and  grin  with  ears,  and  think 

With  noses,,  as  they  smell  with  eyes,  and  drink 

The  complex  law-points  down  through  ev'ry  pore. 

Absorbing  all,  and  yet  have  room  for  more. 

We  have  the  solemn  thinker,  and  the  grum, 

As  well  as  silent  thinker  with  ear  drum, 


66  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

And  grinning,  towering,  hunchback  thinker,  too,  • 

In  every  shade  from  Rome  down  to  Peru ; 

In  fine,  the  intellect  of  all  the  land 

Sits  here  enthroned  —  a  kingdom  in  a  band 

Of  culture,  sense,  sobriety,  and  ease, 

As  well  as  beauty  bred,  and  formed  to  please ; 

And  they  the  sole  construers  of  the  law 

When  life's  at  stake,  and  must  note  ev'ry  flaw 

The  counsel  make,  and,  too,  must  judge  the  Judge, 

Then  legalize  a  verdict  on  a  grudge. 

Packed  jurors  sitting  round  to  try  their  betters, 
E'en  though  the  tried  are  large  the  Devil's  debtors, 
With  solemn  brows  and  long-drawn  faces  blent, 
The  embodied  hypocrites  that  Dante  meant; 
Oh,  see  them  sitting! — gods!  —  intelligence 

Sends  halos  down  o'er  many  a  learned  head, 
Where  whisky-fog's  exhaled  like  the  "incense" 

That  rises  up  from  carcases  long  dead ! 

The  rotten  law-limb  rants  like  other  fools, 
Before  the  languid  patience  of  the  mules. 
Along  in  rows  to  list  their  father's  bray 
With  ears  drooped  low  to  catch  whale'er  they  say; 
For  who  will  doubt  such  donkeys  understand 
A  parent's  language  and  a  court's  command? 


Tke  Gotham  of  Yasnmr  67 

When  evidence  is  in,  each  juror  bows 

Unto  the  court  to  whom  he  made  his  vows, 

Retires  so  solemnly  the  bailiff  cries  — 

At  every  step  he  wipes  his  weeping  eyes, — 

As  on  they  march  where  justice  often  sits 

As  dead  as  hell,  while  treason  round  her  flits, 

And  there  they  blink  like  owls  on  limbs  or  blocks, 

O'er  verdicts  made  ere  called  into  the  box. 


A  summer  icicle  is  a  rare  thing, 
And  very  sightly,  too,  in  fall  or  spring; 
But  when  we  see  ice  freezing  the  year  through, 
Defying  dog-days  (and  our  satire,  too), 
'Tis  rare  no  longer;  but  unto  your  gaze 
We'll  point  ice  out  that  hangs  in  court  always. 
The  little  court  that  holds  it  —  gods!  'tis  small, 
And  everything  is  froze  from  wall  to  wall; 
And  if  hell  through  her  reign  no  ice  e'er  felt, 
When  this  drops  in  she'll  feel  ice  that  won't  melt, 
And  imps  around  that  have  been  scorched  for  years 
Will  go  to  freezing  into  squares  and  spheres, 
And  where  the  hot  flames  seething  once  did  roll 
The  ice  will  gorge  the  same  as  the  North  Pole. 
Thus,  hell  will  freeze  up  where  these  ice-limbs  drop, 
And  icelands  will  exist  where  roastlands  stop. 


68  The  GotJiam  of  Yasinar 

Unhappy  F.  P.  once  before  a  bar 

Of  "justice"  as  'twere  meted  out  to  men 
So  long  ago  within  old  time's  slow  car 

We  scarce  remember  it!  but  then,  or  when, 
It  matters  not  so  much  as  other  things. 

If  we  can  yet  attune  our  broken  lyre 
To  sing  them  as  they  should  be  sung,  the  strings 

Would  be  so  smoothly  touched  and  swept,  the  fire 
Prometheus  alone  would  send  from  heaven 

And  warm  our  breast  with  sacred  inspiration 
To  sing  the  song  till  all  chords  be  given 

To  one  long-drawn  harmonious  vibration; 
'Twere  then  a  fitting  tribute  we  might  pay 
To  him  the  murdered,  when  he  pined  away. 
Behind  the  bars  of  prison,  oh  !  his  head, 

Stamped  by  the  royal  seal  true  manhood  set, 
Drooped  neath  the  chain  of  outraged  law,  as  fled 

Each  ray  of  hope  to  shield  him  from  the  net 
The  low,  ambitious  p — secutors  cast 
About  him  but  to  scourge  him  to  the  last. 
The  barren  walks  about  him  caught  his  moan, 
They  were  the  lodgments  —  hearts  had  turned  to  stone; 
His  poor,  emaciated  form  was  bent, 
Yet  honor  stamped  each  broken  lineament 
That  law  had  written  murder  on ;  its  trace 
Was  there  and  set,  and  homage  held  her  place ; 
He  lived,  he  pined,  till  hope  had  almost  fled: 
The  shackles  fell:  he's  innocent — but  dead. 


77/6-  Gotham  of  J  \ismar  69 

Yet  what's  a  life  e'en  to  a  lawyer's  fame; 
Though  it  takes  a  dozen,  he  must  have  a  name. 

A  man — a  small  inheritance  is  common  ; 

A  little  drinking  will  be  soon  forgot, 
A  poker  game,  an  intrigue  with  a  woman," 

Remorse  —  repentance  —  then  a  pistol  shot. 
The  bait  is  cast;  the  buzzards  swarm  in  numbers, 

Above  the  carrion,  snapping  hungry  beaks 
To  fill  their  maws,  enough  to  wake  from  slumbers 

The  dead  o'er  which  a  lonely  phoenix  speaks, 
And  rises  from  its  ashes  mid  the  roar 

Of  dreamy-eyed  cadaverous  bonepickers, 
Cawing  round  and  waiting  still  for  more 

When  all  is  gone.     Hope  in  the  Phoenix  flickers 
As  it  doth  gaze  upon  the  rack  of  bones 

So  well  picked  by  the  cawing  barroters 
That  it  must  gaze  upon  the  place  with  groans 

And  bear  the  fate  of  most  inheritors 
That  fall  into  such  hands,  so  lo\v  and  rash, 
Such  hands  of  pygmies — hands  of  legal  trash. 

Long,  long  ago,  a  simple  limb  called  Andy  — 
It  matters  not  if  first  or  last  name, —  handy 
He  was  regarded  with  his  limber  tongue, 
E'en  if  its  bridle  was  a  little  sprung; 
His  face  was  pinched,  his  mouth  a  little  pouched, 
His  body  stooped  like  some  feline  half  crouched 


To  spring  upon  its  prey,  whene'er  he'd  plead; 

His  knees  knocked,  too,  because  he  was  knock-kneed. 

Enough  to  know  —  and  we'll  vouch  this  for  him  — 

He  was  ever  ready  and  filled  to  the  brim 

With  egotism,  and  'way  out  he'd  swell 

To  his  own  satisfaction  when  he'd  dwell 

Upon  his  knowledge  of  the  legal  lore, 

And  strut,  and  then  admire  himself  the  more. 

He  was  a  strutter,  not  the  "gobbler  "  kind; 

Yet  he  could  "  gobble  "  if  he  were  a  mind, 

And  it  is  said  that  once  upon  a  time, 

(If  you'll  allow  me  this  line  just  for  rhyme, 

And  yet,  supposing  no  one  will  get  mad), 

He  helped  to  "gobble  "  all  one  fello\v  had, 

And  when  he  laid  him  on  a  bankrupt  shelf, 

We  must  suppose  he  "  divvied  "  with  himself. 

'Tis  said  his  partner  bore  the  name  so  well 

Of  synonym  for  "curlew"*  one  could  tell 

That  he  could  stretch  his  neck  up  to  the  eared 

Long  Andy  and  blow  brains  where  none  appeared; 

Thus  Andy  got  the  credit  for  the  wit 

Of  this  synonym  for  curlew  —  every  bit. 

Another  twain  from  which  we'd  take  the  Brush 
And  comb  a  Snider,  as  we  onward  rush 


*  A  curlew  is  a  kind  of  crane,  even  lower  than  the  ordinary  shitepoke, 
inhabiting  cesspools. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  7 1 

Through  verse  heroic,  e'en  to  danger  risky 
When  fooling  with  those  swimming  in  bad  whisky, 
Had  we  the  time;  but  with  their  motley  crew 
We'll  bid  them  wallow  on,  and  say  —  adieu  ! 

There  are  others,  too,  should  never  be  forgotten, 
At  least,  before  they  are  laid  low  and  rotten; 
'Tis  only  good  stiffs,  if  well  holed  away, 
Will  be  remembered  till  they  mold  to  clay. 
And  decomposing  barrots  ere  they  die, 
Could  scarce  resolve  to  good  stiffs,  if  they'd  try; 
And  if  we'd  sing  the  worth  of  most  the  throng, 
We'd  wade  in  cesspools  to  inspire  our  song, 
And  steep  our  pen  in  poisons  of  the  mires, 
Then  burn  their  souls  with  phosphorescent  fires  — 
If  they  have  any  (since  we've  come  to  think, 
Souls  may  not  dwell  within  the  "  missing  link  "; 
And  if  the  chain  still  waits  for  this  repair, 
The  link  is  found,  and  can  be  welded  here). 

'Tis  hardly  fair  to  quit  the  noble  throng, 

And  not  personify  more  in  our  song; 

But  nothing  to  our  credit  can  inure 

By  pelting  donkeys  with  their  own  manure; 

So  here  we  leave  them  to  the  court  that  passes 

Judgment  for  the  throng  of  hybrid  asses, 


72  77^6?  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

Where  law  is  outlawed  through  official  grace, 

And  justice  droops,  denied  her  honored  place. 

We'll  rear  this  epitaph  where  each  is  laid, 

"  He  drowned  while  swimming  in  the  slime  he  made." 

Upon  the  bench  with  his  contorted  body 

The  "  Jedge"  sits  snoozing  while  the  lawyers  smell; 
He  looks  too  like  old  hunchback  Quasimodo, 

That  Victor  Hugo  told  about  so  well, 
In  the  cathedral  of  old  Notre  Dame, 
And  handed  down  to  an  eternal  fame; 
Those  who  have  read  this  greatest  of  all  stories 

Mind  how  he  threw  the  people  in  convulsions 
With  his  most  hideous  form  when  all  his  glories 

Were  in  his  varied  mixture  of  repulsions. 
Now,  when  we  look  upon  the  "Jedge,"  we  see 

The  hunchback's  frame  remodeled ;  it's  come  down 

Through  generations  to  this  old  dead  town 
And  reincarnated  again,  to  be 

The  "Jedge"  in  Gotham,  and  not  a  bell-ringer, 

Or  savior  of  a  fair  Bohemian  singer, 
Like  Esmeralda  with  Djali  round  her 
(Djali  is  the  little  goat  that  found  her) ; 
But  real  "old  billys"  follow  now  the  "Jedge," 
Called  lawyers,  that  are  "on  the  ragged  edge," 
And  use  him  as  they  like  for  a  cat's-paw, 
And  help  him  on  to  prostitute  the  law. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasuiar  73 

The  clay  that  formed  this  fossil  life  was  given 
A  transient  life  void  of  the  breath  of  heaven. 
And  yet  it  wields  its  legalized  iron  rod 
As  automatic  as  a  demigod, 
Yet  vested  in  full  purple  with  the  law 
To  legalize  its  judgments  on  a  flaw, 
And  innocence  must  bow  to  it  in  grace 
And  humbly  hide  in  shame  its  honored  face. 
Gods  from  old  India,  were  they  by  his  side, 
Would  close  their  eyes  in  envy,  not  in  pride. 
It  as  a  model  should  invade  their  strand, 
For  hideousness  is  godlike  in  that  land. 

About  the  time  of  Hiero-glyphics, 

There  was  a  journal  published  in  this  place 
By  editors  diseased  with  Rickets  —  six* 

Loathed,  wallowing  in  their  own  swill  of  disgrace; 
One  old  sleuth  led  the  staff;  each  little  one 

Yelped  at  his  heels,  like  many  a  mangy  cur, 
With  eyes  half  open,  smelling,  as  they  run, 

Some  scent  of  scandal  or  some  one  to  slur; 
With  nose  to  ground,  they  prowl  and  sniffle  by, 

Pretending  that  the  trail  is  growing  warm, 
And  look  about  with  the  half-opened  eye, 

As  if  by  yelping  they  could  do  some  harm. 


*The  author  may  be  mistaken  in  the  number  ;  rickets,  being  a  disease 
of  the  bones,  and  the  species  to  which  we  allude  being  bench-legged, 
nature,  perhaps,  has  done  all  that  was  required  of  her,  and  the  disease 
may  be  a  misnomer. 


74  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

The  yelp's  the  only  weapon  that  they  use, 

For  each  one's  toothless,  barks  with  a  half  whine; 
And  when  the  trail  is  ended,  the  abuse 

Is  in  the  sound-wave  flown  from  each  canine. 
The  sicklier  one,  whenever  it  was  seen, 
Just  looked  so  verdant  that  they  called  it  Green. 
In  scenting  trails  this  whelp  could  only  growl, 
And  follow  other  tracks  and  sneak  and  prowl, 
While  the  old  sleuth  ran  by,  and  whined  and  hissed, 
To  tree  a  scandal  where  none  did  exist ; 
And  yet,  unchained  like  many  a  foul-mouthed  hound, 
They  run  at  large  instead  of  being  drowned. 

A  college !  nit,  a  college !  Yip,  a  school, 

Where  little  boys  in  knee  pants  mind  the  rule 

Laid  down  for  them  when  from  parental  care 

They  are  sent  forth  in  infant  flushes  rare, 

So  tender  and  so  youthful,  ah !  the  grace 

Of  babyhood  yet  marks  each  dimpled  face 

With  rose  tints  flush  where  dews  play  hide  and  seek, 

Like  tears  that  roll  down  many  a  troubled  cheek. 

Their  mamma's  absent,  papa's  too  away, 

No  little  girls  at  school  with  whom  to  play; 

The  rule  must  stand,  and  little  boys  alone 

Shall  seek  no  other  playmates  than  their  own. 

Poor  little  ostracisms,  born  to  fate, 

Step  in  this  school  and  bow,  and  they  are  great. 


77/t'  Gotham  of  Yasmar  75 

*She  stands  there  aged  in  her  youth  content, 

With  spurs  already  won ;  alone  she  stands, 
Like  an  abandoned  castle  age  had  rent 

For  centuries  with  her  avenging  hands; 
There  crumbling  to  the  dust  she  stands  alone, 

As  the  old  charioteers  of  time  pass  on, 
Unmindful  of  the  pace  and  the  atone, 

She  owes  the  future  and  the  time  that's  gone, 
Or  like  a  ship  that  rocks  upon  the  wave, 

Without  a  rudder,  pilot,  or  a  crew, 
Sinking  of  her  own  weight  to  her  grave, 

Abandoned,  not  forgotten,  by  the  few; 
Once  from  her  walls  her  scholars,  hand  in  hand, 

Came  forth;  but  this  in  time  of  days  of  yore, 
When  one  old  pilot  at  her  helm  did  stand 

For  the  long  voyage  of  thirty  years  or  more; 
And  when  he  left  her  pilot-house,  she  stood 
Aimless,  hopeless,  floundering  as  she  would. 


The  veriest  of  all  veries,  they  will  vary, 
In  contour,  look,  and  stature  as  they  tarry 
Upon  the  world,  and  yet  they  must  be  greeted, 
Just  in  proportion  as  they've  to  us  meted 

*The  piles  of  her  once  glorious  superstructure  have  become  of  much 
interest  to  the  modern  student,  especially  the  relic  hunter.  Many  of  the 
shells  of  old  fossils  are  yet  found  among;  the  debris,  which  are  marvels  to 
modern  times. 


76  The  Gotham  of  Yasuiar 

Out  their  glances,  tails,  and  claws  of  venom, 

Such  shallow  addles  we  don't  care  to  win  'em. 

Nor  what  they  say,  or  do,  or  think,  or  cater; 

We'll  let  the  Devil  care  for  them  on  later; 

We  think  we  hear  now  what  soon  will  be  saying 

Among  the  knowing  little  donkeys  braying. 

The  pedagogue  will  wink  and  then  assert  it, 

That  what  we've  written  here  has  really  hurt  it. 

Poor  little  soft-brained  silly  addled  tutor 

Should  have  his  nose  rung  while  he  is  a  rooter, 

And  those  who  teach  now  in  the  time  of  Cloddie, 

Will.wish  a  thousand  holes  shot  through  his  body 

When  he  succeeds  again,  which  must  needs  follow, 

Because  he  would  with  them  no  longer  wallow. 

The  birch  and  childhood  for  the  brain  expansion, 

The  rail  pen  and  the  log  hut  for  the  mansion. 

Such  pedagogues  and  critics  claim  to  know  us; 

Oh,  how  we'll  tremble  when  they  overthrow  us! 

But  here  we'll  climb  up  to  the  stately  college 

Where  little  winks  and  blinks  mean  lots  of  knowledge. 

"Another  book;  a  satire  •"  then  a  half-turn, 

A  wild  look  in  the  eyes  as  from  a  heartburn, 

A  smile  more  cynical  that's  meant  to  serve  us, 

Which  took  such  effort,  made  the  server  nervous. 

The  smile  was  but  the  depth  of  all  his  knowledge, 

Yes,  his,  this  fossil  in  old  W College; 

And  yet  in  spite  of  all  such  sham  of  scholars, 
We'll  revel  right  on  in  our  fresh-made  dollars. 


77 


Next  comes  the  happy  councilman  of  town, 

Who  gets  an  order  ere  he  gets  a  crown, 

Who  must  indite  a  secret  page  or  two 

Of  what  in  future  he  intends  to  do. 

The  written  page  in  other  hands  must  go, 

That  work  with  tools,  the  tools  along,  you  know, 

Into  the  hands  that  use  them  as  their  slaves, 

And  dance  abreast  to  music  that  depraves 

The  ear  of  honor;  yet  they  dare  not  choose, 

To  do  but  that  true  manhood  would  refuse. 

Each  happy  councilman  of  this  old  town 

Has  strings  attached,  and  dances  like  a  clown 

Whene'er  they're  pulled.     The  music  starts  apace, 

Each  puppet  jumps  to  its  accustomed  place, 

Looks  solemn  from  the  corners  of  its  eyes 

Toward  its  master,  then  again  looks  wise. 

Another  pull:   the  vote  is  duly  cast, 

And  Nero  fiddles  for  the  town  at  last; 

For  as  the  servant  on  the  master  waits, 

The  master  through  the  servant  gets  rebates. 

A  measly  council  of  a  measly  town, 
An  aspect  upon  which  the  De'il  would  frown  ; 
Enough  to  breed  smallpox  and  pestilence 
And  all  the  scourges  of  a  like  offense. 
Such  town  can  play  the  polecat  of  a  state, 
And  quarantine  itself  to  its  own  fate 


78  The  Gothavi  of  Yasmar 

By  the  obnoxious  vapors  that  arise 
From  its  own  self,  and  smell  unto  the  skies: 
And  woe  unto  those  who  go  through  the  smoke ; 
Unless  they're  acclimated  they  will  choke. 
For  mountain  trout  cannot  live  in  cesspools, 
No  more  than  wise  men  can  reside  with  fools. 

He*  comes!  he  comes!  bold  Yasmar  with  his  fund, 

And  six*  in  hand  wild  steeds  caparisoned : 

He  draws  the  rein  on  one  to  make  him  dance, 

And  with  his  whip  he  makes  the  others  prance. 

On,  on,  through  muddy  street  his  chariot  flies; 

Each  palfry  with  distorted  nose  and  eyes 

Leaps  for  its  master,  as  the  whip  recoils, 

Renews  his  vigor  and  proclaims  the  spoils; 

The  track  is  clear;  bold  Yasmar  has  proclaimed 

His  speech  is  law,  the  law's  his  speech  well  named; 

Should  any  dare  to  quest  his  sovereign  right, 

The  six  in  hand  just  whinny  with  delight 

At  such  presumption;  don't  they  know  the  law, 

And  to  be  loyal  to  the  one  they  draw  ? 

Bold  Yasmar  is  as  clever  as  a  clown, 

He  has  a  mortgage  on  the  "  classic  "  town 

For  all  its  worth;  he  has  but  little  then; 

The  most's  the  mortgage  on  the  councilman. 


*  Gotham  was  governed  by  one  man,  through  six  living  instruments. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  79 

Next  in  its  order  is  the  world  of  clubs 
(This  world  is  centered  in  this  town  of  hubs) 
That  number  many  of  such  prominence, 
In  poker  playing  as  have  won  •"'  s'teen  cents." 
The  two-cent  ante  is  the  nervy  dash, 
And  rich  men  of  the  clubs  have  gone  to  smash 
By  planting  all  they  had  and  being  brave 
In  putting  down  so  much  on  ace  or  knave. 
The  clubs  are  rich  —  supporting  colo'd  ushers; 
They  rush  the  growler,  too;  but  most  the  rushers, 
Because  they  bring  up  two  quarts  for  a  penny, 
And  for  each  sober  one  there's  drunken  many. 
The  clubs  give  most  the  color  to  the  town  ; 
The  town  gives  color  back  without  a  frown, 
The  blending  is  most  delicate  to  speak  of 
From  substances  that  few  such  cities  reek  of. 


The  great  Ouiatenan,  well  known  to  fame 

Where  judge  and  lawyers  of  this  learned  port 
All  rendezvous,  in  honor  of  this  name, 

To  fix  up  cases  ere  they  go  to  court, 
Pretentious  to  discuss  the  lettered  throng. 

Beneath  the  famous  name  they  court  the  court, 
Deceive  the  people  whom  they  live  among. 

In  ways  that  would  deprave  a  house  of  sport. 


8o  The  Gotham  of  Yasniar 

Deception  is  the  silent  watchword  here, 

Where  manhood  dies  —  borne  off  without  a  bier, — 

And  the  sang-froid  of  pretense  half  asleep, 

Blinks  up  its  eye  to  see  true  honor  weep. 

A  club  and  town  both  honored  by  a  name. 

And  honored  by  the  one  they  do  defame 

Are  scarcely  subjects  to  inspire  a  song, 

Above  the  turgid  groveling  of  the  throng. 

The  Lotus  Club  !  the  Lotus  Club  !  O  chirp, 
Ye  crows  and  buzzards  of  the  spheres  above ; 

Chirp  to  its  glory  as  its  lords  usurp 

The  thrones  of  Bacchus  and  unholy  love, 

Grant  them  the  transport  of  all  earthly  things, 

And  when  they  die,  O  buzzards,  lend  them  wings! 

Next  in  the  galaxy  of  clubs  there  looms 

The  Hit  and  Miss,  where  candidates  for  grooms 

Conspire  together  to  entrap  their  slaves, 

Each  noticed  in  her  reign  as  she  behaves; 

And  as  the  "  gay  Apollos  "  on  the  run 

Get  caught  within  the  wily  meshes  spun 

From  beams  flashed  from  the  eyes  of  coy  coquettes, 

Wove  in  the  loom  deception  into  nets 

To  catch  their  "succors,"  blind  as  scaly  fries, 

That  rush  in  headlong  to  their  sleepy  eyes, 


77/6'  Gotham  of  Yasmar  8 1 

And  as  they're  caught  and  landed  on  the  brink, 

Gods!  how  the  vapors  from  them  rise  and !* 

Oh,  pity  them  —  these  poor  deluded  swains! 

Had  they  less  stomachs,  they  might  have  more  brains. 

The  gods  of  poesy  ashamed  depart, 
While  yet  they  may,  untarnished  by  the  art 
Of  musing  through  their  mediums  of  earth, 
To  sing  such  subjects  into  endless  birth. 

But  if  our  effort  in  unmeasured  verse, 

Results  in  prose  run  mad,  it  might  be  worse ; 

For  could  it  fall  as  low  as  to  the  level, 

Of  those  we  sing,  we'll  then  implore  the  Devil 

To  fill  us  with  his  untold  horrors  known 

But  to  himself,  and  then  assume  our  throne, 

To  do  our  subjects  justice,  for  we  swear 

We  then  could  do  no  less,  if  we  should  dare. 

Or,  could  we  live  on  hardware  for  a  while, 

Washed  down  with  acid,  then  we  might  revile 

To  such  a  plane  as  to  be  just  and  right 

In  painting  likenesses  of  whom  we  write; 

And  if  you  call  it  blackguardism,  then, 

When  through  this  cesspool  you  have  steered  our  pen, 

To  leave  you  character  as  our  bequest, 

And  that  from  which  you  cannot  be  divest. 

*  Just  smell. 


82  Tlie  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

'Tis  but  yourselves  on  whom  must  rest  the  blame;  — 
THE  LITTLE  GOTHAM  GETS  HER  PROPER  NAME. 

It  oft  occurs  that  bad  comes  out  of  good, 
And  good  comes  out  of  bad,  if  understood : 
But  an  eternal  sun  from  a  quagmire 

Is  a  rare  thing  for  us  to  see  arise 
In  place  of  balls  of  phosphorescent  fire; 

But  we  have  seen  it,  to  our  great  surprise. 

From  all  the  great  books  of  the  manifold, 

The  purest,  sweetest  story  ever  told 

Groups  round  "Ben  Hur":   from  where  its  lights  are 

rimmed 

The  constellation  of  the  stars  are  dimmed. 
Ambitious  brilliants,  in  the  course  they  run, 
Ride  through  the  heavens  to  eclipse  the  sun ; 
But  as  their  radiance  sweeps  the  ether  o'er, 
They  pale  and  flicker,  and  are  seen  no  more ; 
Just  as  the  lettered  minions  strike  their  way, 
View  their  own  plumage  in  the  glow  of  day- 
Shed  from  "Ben  Hur"  upon  his  eagle  flight, 
Whose  spreading  wings  fill  the  whole  world  with  light; 
And  as  he  goes  the  shaft  shot  from  below 
Recoils  on  him  who  bent  the  erring  bow, 
And  on  unscathed  as  the  bright  beam  of  Mars, 
He  keeps  his  course  amid  the  singing  stars. 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  83 

Another  sun  of  little  less  pretensions 

Rose  o'er  the  "blister"  with  its  peerless  ray, 
And  hovers  'mong  the  stars  of  great  dimensions 

And  darkens  down  such  as  the  Milky  Way; 
It  shines  alone  within  its  own  dominions 

Glassing  the  heavens  with  the  fairest  gems, 
A  Lincoln  throned  within  its  golden  pinions 

To  list  to  lyres  'mong  starry  diadems. 
We  train  our  ear  and  hear  the  mocking  bird, 

From  the  far  South ;  it  wakes  its  reeded  throat, 
And  pours  the  sweetest  songs  ear  ever  heard 

That  lodge  up  in  the  heavens,  every  note ; 
And  down  the  vistas,  through  the  cycles  run, 
Our  Thompson  shines,  an  everlasting  sun. 

Call  what  we  write  old  trash,  or  moldy  rot, 
Before  you  read  or  after,  care  we  not : 
And  should  you  never  read  a  line  we  write, 
And  yet  will  criticise  —  well,  that's  all  right; 
You'll  know  as  much  before  you  read  as  after 
When  reading  us  for  sake  of  sneers  and  laughter. 
Wink  when  you  read,  and  simper  when  you  wink, 
Straighten  up,  disdain  it,  call  it  wasted  ink, 
Hint,  and  then  look  wise,  laugh  out,  wink  again, 
Strut  low,  chuckle  some,  act  a  little  vain, 
Close  your  lips,  look  grave,  have  the  subject  turned, 
Wheeze  and  frown,  sneeze  and  cough,  then  our  satire's 
spurned. 


84  The  Gotham  of  Yasniar 

Oh,  how  such  critics  cut  us  to  the  quick ! 
From  such  lofty  sources  almost  make  us  sick. 
Poisons  kill  us  quite  as  they  do  our  verse, 
When  they  hint  our  head's  as  empty  as  our  purse, 
And  when  we  know  so  well  such  things  will  be  said, 
As,  "Doggerel  like  this  never  will  be  read." 

Our  lines  may  not  be  cut  with  the  same  chopper, 

Exactly,  through  the  satire ;  on  the  Bible, 
We'll  swear  at  no  time  did  the  pipes  of  copper, 

Contain  our  inspiration ;  and  a  libel 
Suit  in  chanc'ry  will  be  pushed  forward, 
Against  such  vile  accuser;  and  the  coward 
That  dares  us  on,  he  will  receive  some  nail  scars, 
Ere  he  has  reached  his  goal  behind  the  jail  bars; 
And  handy,  too,  we  claim  to  be  with  knuckles, 
So  handy  that  we  grin  at  boasting  chuckles 
Of  how  they'll  do  us  when  we  publish  —  well 
We1  II  see  who1  II  be  the  carrion  that  will  smell .' 

We  do  not  fear  the  cowardly  low  bushwhacker, 
Whose  weapon's  but  the  harmless,  leadless  cracker, 
Whose  blasts  are  loud  as  e'en  the  rifle  ranger 
That  sneaks  and  runs  at  the  approach  of  danger. 

To  you,  ye  cowards,  while  we  dare  not  brain  you  — 
For  brains  you  have  not,  —  yet  we  can  disdain  you, 


The  Gotham  of  Yasmar  85 

Defy  you,  curse  you,  run  you  like  a  traitor, 
And  teach  you,  too,  that  we  are  a  good  hater 
When  causes  spring  up  great  enough  to  test  us 
By  running  cowards  that  would  try  to  jest  us; 
And  if  we've  used  the  gods  to  lash  such  "matter" 
We'll  take  a  rose  back  on  a  silver  platter, 
For  sheaves  of  anger,  bound,  may  not  be  teeming, 
With  their  hypnotics,  in  poetic  dreaming. 

A  pretty  Knoll  prepared  by  God  for  me, 
Upon  which  rose  our  home  so  beautifully, 
Kissed  by  the  first  ray  of  the  morning  sun 
And  by  the  last  one  when  the  day  was  done ; 
It  was  a  mark  for  all  the  orbs  above, 
It  was  an  ark  in  which  to  ever  love; 
In  summer  when  the  sweet- flowered  creeping  vine, 
On  trellised  walls  its  tendrils  did  entwine, 
With  sunbeams  chasing  through  the  filigree, 
The  while  the  fountain  played  unceasingly, 
There,  there  was  springtime  all  the  year  along — 
An  inspiration  fit  to  flavor  song. 

Come,  loved  ones,  come !    Come,  little  children,  come  ! 
The  hour  is  ill  that  takes  us  from  our  home, 
And  leaves  it  for  strange  voices  to  prolong. 
The  echoes  of  our  sad  refrain  of  song. 


86  The  Gotham  of  Yasmar 

O  gentle  breezes,  bear  our  sighs  away; 

Hope  darkens  in  the  future  while  we  stay. 

O  come!    O  come!    and  far  away  we'll  go, 

E'en  wheresoe'er  the  gentle  breezes  blow: 

The  air  is  free;  its  sweetness  oft  inspires 

The  life,  the  vigor,  that  the  soul  requires. 

Come,  dear  ones,  come !  there's  many  a  reeded  throat 

Slaked  its  own  sorrow  through  a  mirthful  note, 

And  many  a  bird's  been  robbed  and  left  distressed 

By  cowardly  vultures  hovering  o'er  its  nest! 

And  this  was  his  to  love,  the  home  he  prized, 
The  harper's  dreams  of  hope  full  realized; 
A  struggling  boy  with  poverty,  forsooth, 
Who  was  ambitious,  if  sometimes  uncouth  ; 
Yet  a  kind  lyre  responded  to  his  hands, 
And  trained  ears  listened  e'en  to  foreign  lands, 
To  little  effort,  'twere  not  all  his  blame, 
Songs  came  and  kindled  in  his  soul  the  flame, 
And  if  the  curse  be  his,  the  cause  still  clings 
To  nature's  lack  in  harmony  of  things. 
Success  to  him  was  but  delusive  joy 
Brought  by  the  harp  he  swept  just  as  a  toy 
In  early  life,  and  yet  he  struck  the  tone 
That  thrilled  his  soul  with  rapture;  if  alone, 
It  were  amusement  the  responding  strings 
Set  hope's  bright  jewel  to  aspiring  wings. 


77/6'  Gotham  of  Yasuiar  87 

Now,  blame  me  if  you  will — ah,  censure  me! 

But  could  you  once  be  squeezed  into  my  place, 
And  taste  awhile  the  gall  of  poverty, 

As  I  have  tasted,  all  caused  by  a  brace 
Of  puppets  —  d-nghill  gangers,  if  you  please,— 

Who  robbed  me  that  they  might  rise  for  a  time 
Into  an  atmosphere  of  pure  degrees, 

That  would  surround  them  in  their  pantomime. 

Bread  and  water!   bills  both  large  and  small, 
And  each  one  seasoned  by  the  bitter  gall 
Of  hate,  contempt,  that  rise  and  overflow, 
In  quick  succession  as  they  come  and  go. 

For  months  and  years  I  kept  my  wrath  confined, 

And  swallowed  back,  and  swallowed  back,  and  pined 

Because  my  fate  was  so,  until  I  reeled 

With  frenzied  madness;  then  my  soul  was  steeled 

Against  such  vipers;  now  who's  in  my  path 

Is  branded  with  the  rod,  red  hot  with  wrath. 

I  know  no  fear,  and,  too,  can  love  and  hate, 
Rejoice  and  burn  and  bow  to  any  fate, 
For  I  have  writhed  within  the  world's  retorts, 
Till  tempered  to  defy  the  villain's  arts, 
To  scorn  his  low,  debased,  and  vile  decree, 
And  catch  him  in  the  trap  he  set  for  nn-. 


The  time  was  once,  and  still  it  might  have  been, 
That  no  harsh  words  could  flow  from  off  my  pen, 
But  since  the  pack  of  curs  around  me  howl 
I've  learned  to  kick  them,  just  to  see  them  scowl. 
'Tis  love  for  love,  and  hate  for  hate,  to  spurn 
This  town  of  hypocrites  from  which  we  turn, 
And  good  for  bad  while  nature  spins  her  tops, 
Will  bring  it  into  busy  tailor  shops 
To  make  it  masks,  beneath  which  it  may  hide, 
And  strut  along  in  full  religious  stride. 


By  vampires  robbed,  through  courts  of  ev'ry  claim, 
Of  home,  of  kindred  —  worse,  of  a  good  name, — 
While  the  vile  sleuth  unscathed  alone  commands, 
As  Gotham  sits  and  claps  her  bloody  hands, 
Stained  in  the  gore  of  honor,  and  again 
Stained  in  her  own  corruption,  to  remain 
A  fetid  sore  of  all  that's  bad  the  worst, 
And  all  that's  cursed  on  earth  the  very  cursed. 
So  go  your  way  (the  sun  will  on  you  shine: 

Its  rays  spread  over  stagnant  pools  as  well 
As  the  clear,  sleeping  lake),  and  I'll  go  mine; 

I'm  only  sorry  if  I  e'er  did  dwell 
Within  your  borders,  for  you  may  construe 
By  reading  me  that  I've  absorbed  from  you. 


If  you  are  sorry,  too,  if  I  did  dwell 

Within  your  borders,  pray  you  do  not  weep, 

For  those  on  earth  who  make  a  transient  hell 
For  others  find  an  endless  one  to  reap. 

So  goes  the  paradox,  just  let  'er  go, 

And  be  prepared  to  sniff  the  flames  below. 

Thus  far  we've  gone,  and  yet  we  have  not  done, 
But  here  we'll  camp,  and  wait  —  and  spike  our  gun. 


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